


The Sons of Ragnar Lothbrok

by DarkFairytale



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bromance, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Magic, Mental Link, Potential Spoilers, Prophetic Visions, Spoilers, Telepathic Bond, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 04:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19369453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkFairytale/pseuds/DarkFairytale
Summary: “Do you know?” Ragnar asked Floki, “That my sons have a connection,” he tapped his head, “Thanks to my wife and her ways?”“Yes I know it,” Floki said, in that slow-quick rise-fall voice of his. “Ivar has told me of it. They were bound to be a little strange, Ragnar,” he said. “They are yours, after all.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote most of this fic a while ago and just discovered it mostly-finished in my docs so I thought what the heck, I might as well finish and share it. 
> 
> Let it be noted that although I am currently a season behind, I love the show and all its characters and performances. This is just a self-humouring thing for someone who likes bromances and couldn't take more bro-conflict when I'd already had to suffer the Ragnar and Floki, and Ragnar and Rollo, fallouts. 
> 
> Although the fic will follow the canon plot at first for the most part, I have included a bit more magic and otherworldly power, that I felt was kind of lost a bit with Aslaug, Ragnar and Athelstan gone. This fic is also canon diversion, so it will eventually divert from canon and change some fates and also add in a little more Norse mythology and history that Hirst has changed for creative purposes. It means a few characters go down different routes and make different decisions. 
> 
> As I have not yet managed to watch any of Season 5 (though I have kept up with it a little via recaps, YouTube, spoilers, tumblr etc) and it has been a long time since I watched Seasons 1 - 4a, please just ignore any errors, and remember I have changed a lot on purpose for this fic! And if any characters seem a tad OOC, that’s intentional with the new paths I’m taking them down. 
> 
> Finally, I am going to give a warning for SPOILERS. Only because in Chapters 4 and 5 I am going into some historic/mythology-based stuff for Ragnar’s sons that could potentially be used in the show for their future storylines. I don’t know how much Hirst will change for creative purposes. I mean, he’s already killed off Sigurd, so Sigurd’s fate won't be a spoiler, but I’ve written about Bjorn, Ivar, Hvitserk and Ubbe’s fates as well, so, there may be a couple of spoilers if any of the show sticks to ‘historically supposed’ futures. Saying that, though, I’ve also taken creative liberties with the history/mythology stuff too to make it work with the story i.e. the boys age gaps/order in the show, which is different to historical record/legend. 
> 
> Anyway, enough rambling from me. As I say, it’s more a personal alternative canon-divergence story with a huge dose of magic/power. I just thought some of you may enjoy some classic bromance and family feel-goods in these trying brother-against-brother times.

 

_“The gods have given me sons, as they promised. But I want to know what the future holds. What will become of them?”_

_“The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok will be spoken of as long as men have tongues to speak.”_

 

In his lifetime, Ragnar Lothbrok had six children.

Ragnar had one daughter. Gyda. She had been the perfect product and personification of his and Lagertha’s love. But then Gyda had died and Lagertha had been unable to give him more children and like Gyda, Ragnar and Lagertha’s marriage had died, too. Left now to fond memory and lost love. 

Bjorn was his eldest son. Ragnar had been there for Bjorn’s earliest years, his childhood, but he had missed out on four years and then a few months more than that and then another ten years. Bjorn was every inch Ragnar’s son. But he was also every inch Lagertha’s son. Because it was Lagertha that had truly raised him, while Ragnar had been out on the summer raids and then again, later, when Lagertha had left Ragnar and Kattegat.

Though that had been Ragnar’s fault. Because Ragnar had found someone who would give him more sons.

Ragnar Lothbrok had five sons.

Lagertha had given him Bjorn. But could give him no more. And then Ragnar had met Aslaug.

Aslaug had given him four sons; Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar. He had seen them intermittently, leaving for months or years at a time, for the first thirteen or-so years. Every time he came back, they had grown a little more. Grown a little more like him, and like Aslaug; he saw traits of both of them in each boy, both for better or worse.

_“What kind of father abandons his sons?”_

He left for ten years. And then he came back. He recognised them immediately, of course. The crowd parted in their wake; Ubbe, a mirror image of Ragnar’s younger self; Hvitserk, with more a look of his mother than Ragnar; Sigurd with his Snake-in-the-Eye; and Ivar, unmistakeable, of course. Ragnar would come to watch them, over the weeks after he returned; learn of them again and see how significantly they had grown and had changed.

He noted what traits they had kept of him and what they had gotten from Aslaug. But it was not just he and Aslaug he saw in each boy. He saw the influences of others too.

Ubbe, his second son and the eldest of his sons with Aslaug, was Ragnar’s heir. The one, everyone said, that was so close in Ragnar’s image. Ragnar had taken Ubbe to Paris with him as a child and had seen that he had been keen to grow up to be like Ragnar and Bjorn, whom he had idolised. But while Ragnar had had no doubt that Ubbe would be a true warrior, he had wondered whether Ubbe could also grow to be a king.

Ragnar had wondered if Ubbe had too kind of a heart to make the tough decisions needed of a king or Jarl, because Ubbe had been raised as a child by a number of people. Aslaug and Ragnar, yes, but also Athelstan and Siggy, Helga, Rollo and Bjorn. Ubbe had been brought up by family, in a big family. Ragnar came to learn that it showed. Ubbe doted on his mother and respected the women and people around him, and he doted on his brothers. He was more a peacemaker than a leader harsh enough to keep power. Ubbe had been raised by a big family and displayed every trait of the farmer and homemaker that Ragnar had started out as. Ubbe was the family-man that Aslaug had probably wished Ragnar could have been, that Ragnar _had_ been, once upon a time, for Lagertha.

_“Do you want to be king, Ubbe?”_

It had been Ubbe that had stepped forwards, and despite looking angry for Ragnar’s hitting him to provoke him, Ragnar knew that his son was not challenging him. It was Ragnar that had held Ubbe’s face, so similar to his own, and it had been Ragnar that had pulled Ubbe into his arms. Just from that first meeting after almost a decade, Ragnar could see that Ubbe had inherited the part of Ragnar that yearned for home and family.

Hvitserk was Ragnar’s third son. The middle one. Like Ubbe, Ragnar had also taken Hvitserk to Paris when Hvitserk had been a child. Hvitserk had also been keen to learn how to fight back then. Play-fighting had been his favourite thing when he had scarcely been tall enough to hit small fists against Ragnar’s knees. Ubbe and Hvitserk had always been close, from the day that Hvitserk had been born. Their fall and rescue from the ice by Siggy’s sacrifice had only cemented the brothers’ friendship further. They had faced death together at a young age and they had come out with blood more bonded than ever. They still seemed close, Ragnar noted, watching them spar together, still so brotherly after his decade away. With Ubbe’s fair hair and Hvitserk’s brown, Ragnar could almost see himself and Rollo, back in their younger days when there was nothing but love and respect between them.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, Hvitserk had always appeared to be Rollo’s favourite of Ragnar and Aslaug’s four boys. When Ragnar had returned after hearing of Jarl Borg’s taking of Kattegat all those years ago and found his family hiding in the mountains, he had first seen Rollo’s attachment to the boy.

“He’s not the heir,” Rollo said, holding the sleeping three-year-old on his knee and Ragnar watching, cautious, still angered by Rollo’s betrayals. “He’s the second son to the heir, the less important one. People may not think him so special. I can relate.”

“You weren’t the second son,” Ragnar had reminded him, petty.

“No,” Rollo agreed. “So maybe one day he’ll prove himself.”

“Maybe one day you might too,” Ragnar had countered with a cutting smirk.

Hvitserk had, apparently, grown up fond of his Uncle Rollo. Aslaug told Ragnar that since becoming Duke of Normandy, Rollo had invited Hvitserk to meet his cousins - Rollo’s royal children - and that Hvitserk had indeed visited for a short time. It was also apparent that Hvitserk was a fighter. A warrior in the making. A lover of battle. Despite not having yet participated in any huge battle, Hvitserk had that gleam of enjoyment and passion in his eye while training that Ragnar remembered from his own youth, and Rollo’s.

And even before he had seen that for himself, he had guessed and tested it the day that he and Hvitserk had been reunited.

_“What about you Hvitserk? Do you think you’re a man now? I dare you.”_

His shout of _‘DO IT!’_ had made Hvitserk flinch, but his eyes were hard, steadfast. Ragnar had left them, abandoned them, and Hvitserk was angry and Ragnar could see that Hivtserk had inherited the part of Ragnar that enjoyed the thrill of the fight, calm in confrontation.

Sigurd, Ragnar’s fourth son, was harder to read at first. Ragnar had not had as much time with him growing up. Sigurd with eyes as blue as Ragnar’s and the snake in one the product of Aslaug’s prophecy. Ragnar learned, following his return, that Sigurd had spent a lot of time around Kattegat growing up, because a lot of Aslaug’s attention had been taken by Ivar, and the rest split between the other three. Sigurd had a lot of friends in Kattegat, young and old. He had been raised by them as much as Aslaug, it seemed. Apparently he had been the first and main to grieve when Bjorn’s daughter Siggy had drowned in the river. He cared about the people. Sigurd liked to play instruments and he liked to make weapons, had designed his own axes, and some weapons for his brothers. Creative and a man of the people. Ragnar remembered himself as a youth, an imagination to create methods of navigation or a dream of a boat that could tackle the seas, the playful soul that liked to entertain, joke and tease others and flirted with Lagertha.

Sigurd did seem a little bitter about his lot, though. Rollo’s prediction of there being a less-favoured child seemed to have been a child too early. Sigurd had the strangest relationship with his mother, seeming to be a little spiteful of her old Harbard-era treatment of him and yet also craving of her attention. But Ragnar could see more of Aslaug in Sigurd’s character than Sigurd would probably want to hear.

_“What about you, Sigurd? Do you want to be king?”_

The stare – the glare – that he received from Sigurd on the day of his return had spelled out his fourth son’s feelings towards him. In that there were few good ones. Sigurd felt abandoned, most of all the sons, and had no warmth for Ragnar at all. Ragnar had left his sons, their mother, and the people. Ragnar had betrayed the people. That glare with the added snake to remind Ragnar that his sons also had the blood of their mother; a princess of otherworldly power. Sigurd’s blood especially, it seemed. The snake in his eye gave him a special sight, he admitted to Ragnar at one point, weeks later when he had finally warmed up a little. He had admitted it proudly. Visions, sometimes, he said. Ragnar remembered the signs and the ravens he himself had seen through his life, a connection to the gods. Aslaug had that too, even more so, and Sigurd seemed to have inherited it from both of them. But what Ragnar believed Sigurd had most inherited from him, was Ragnar’s creativeness and the wish to help and better the people of Kattegat; traits that Ragnar had buried for so many years.

And speaking of feelings that Ragnar had buried for so many years, there was Ivar, his fifth and youngest son. The one Ragnar had nearly left for dead as a baby. The crippled one. The boneless one. The one that had survived despite the odds.

_“Hello Ivar. There’s no mistaking you.”_

Of all Ragnar and Aslaug’s boys, Ivar was the biggest mix of the two of them; Aslaug’s hair colour, Ragnar’s eyes and smirk. Ivar had his mother’s quick wit and sharp tongue and his father’s strategic mind. And he had determination and strength by the fistful. Despite his inability to walk, Ivar had trained to fight; he was quick with a sword and a dead-on marksman with a bow and an axe. He had his mother’s approval, but he wanted his father’s. Ragnar could see it; his wish to impress him. While the other boys clearly disapproved of Ragnar’s long absence, Ivar had been certain that Ragnar had had good reason.

And Ragnar had missed a lot of time. He had missed the day that Ivar, while playing with the other children, had become frustrated and put an axe in another child’s head, not understanding quite what he had done. He had a lot of pent up anger, Ivar. And a little hint of glorious madness, which had made him the perfect student for Floki. Aslaug had been determined for at least one of her boys to be tutored well about the gods and had entrusted Floki with some of Ivar’s lessons and care, often so that she could have time to rule Kattegat and also spend time with her other three sons. Floki and Helga, still saddened by the loss of their baby girl, had been more than happy to take Ivar on and virtually adopt him as their own. Floki taught the boy with his own creatively intelligent mind, taught him of the gods, taught him his crazy ways. He had also been the best person for Ivar in other ways; building him methods of transport and even braces for his legs so that Ivar could stand and walk upright, sometimes.

Ivar was adored by his mother, who had fought so hard to keep him alive. He was treated as an equal by his brothers, who doted on him just as much as each other. They carried him around the forests, they slung his arms over their shoulders when they went on ground too steep. Ivar and Sigurd seemed prone to arguments, but what boys didn’t sometimes fight with their brothers? Unless they were Ubbe and Hvitserk, of course, who seemed inseparable no matter the odds. There was rivalry amongst his four boys, but it was mostly in good humour, and they were all clearly fond of each other, and ready and willing to fight as one and protect each other.

Ivar was adored by his mother, but all that Ivar really wanted was to be adored by his father. He wanted his chance to prove himself. And Ragnar would give that to him, eventually. Ragnar had plans for Ivar the Boneless. Because Ragnar knew that Ivar the Boneless had inherited Ragnar’s gift for strategy. 

_“Who wants to be king?”_

As much as his four boys were four parts of one whole, they also had their older brother, who they looked up to, and respected.

Bjorn was truly a man, coming to stand before Ragnar beside his younger brothers. Bjorn was a warrior, a man with an eye to adventure, a leader. But the warrior’s skill and the leadership qualities were inherited from Lagertha more than from Ragnar. The wanderlust, though? The wanderlust was all Ragnar. Bjorn told Ragnar later of his plans to sail south, to follow his map to the sea without tides. At one time, Ragnar would have done anything to go with his son and explore new worlds. But Ragnar was old. Old, but not yet defeated. Ragnar had one more journey to make, but it was back to unfinished business where he had started it all.

Ragnar looked at his five sons standing before him. Who wants to be king? They were all warriors, all leaders. They could all be kings. Ragnar was a king, and they all had a part of him with them. The major pieces of Ragnar measured out; Bjorn was the adventurer, Ubbe was the homemaker, Hvitserk was the fighter, Sigurd was the creator, Ivar was the strategist. Rulers in their roles, all. Aslaug saw it differently, of course. She said that Bjorn had Ragnar’s heart, Ubbe his body, Hvitserk his spirit, Sigurd his soul and Ivar his mind.

Ragnar had five sons. But as much as he could see himself in all of them, he could also not deny that due to his major absences, as much as they were his (and four of them Aslaug’s) they were also measured out between other significant people in Ragnar’s life; Bjorn was Lagertha’s, Ubbe the family’s, Hvitserk Rollo’s favourite, Sigurd the people’s and Ivar Floki’s.  But he did not regret this. He had no doubt that those influences would make them all the more a formidable force, the worthy leaders of a great heathen army, in all that was to come.

***

The major pieces of Aslaug measured out; Ubbe was the fierce and reliable protector, Hvitserk was the feisty free spirit, Sigurd was the empathetic conscience, Ivar was the wit and intelligence. And, Ragnar found out, between the four of them, they had gotten pieces of her power too. Although Sigurd had sight like his mother, and Ivar the strongest beliefs in the powers of their gods, all four of them had a connection to each other. An eerie connection:

Ragnar, Aslaug, Ubbe and Ivar had been in the house, when Ubbe and Ivar’s fists had clenched almost simultaneously, their heads shooting up. Ubbe leapt to his feet instantly and darted out of the house, Ivar watching him go with wide eyes. Aslaug watched Ivar with concern, but neither said anything. Ubbe returned not long later with Sigurd, who had sliced his hand badly while making a weapon on the other side of Kattegat. And Ragnar had no doubt that Ubbe and Ivar had _known_. Sigurd made no fuss and sat still as stone as his mother sewed the skin of his palm back together. Ivar, meanwhile, was staring at his own palm as if he could feel and see his own blood dripping through his fingers.

During a training session Ivar had gotten cross with Sigurd and thrown a hand axe at the tree behind him that had purposefully sliced a cut in Sigurd’s head on the way over. Sigurd had bled, and Ivar had clearly not been satisfied with his action in the end, sitting stunned all evening as though he could still feel the sting himself. Ubbe and Hvitserk had gone to bed with headaches.

On another occasion Ubbe entered the house laughing, interrupting an argument between Sigurd and Ivar, and even though the youngest two had been positively fuming in rage at each other, the tension cracked in the wake of Ubbe’s joy. Hvitserk, who had been watching the argument warily from the side-lines while spooning his dinner into his mouth, had started cackling first, Sigurd snorted a laugh and shook his head, anger forgotten, and Ivar’s face split in its mad grin and he had giggled in a way that was not so dissimilar to Floki’s. Aslaug had been there too; she hadn’t laughed with the boys, but she had smiled knowingly, not the slightest bit concerned that the other three hadn’t even known what Ubbe had been laughing about.

Ivar would never show that he was in pain, even though he had to be in pain most of the time. The days where it was worse, the other boys seemed to know it.

“What is it?” Ragnar asked Hvitserk and Ubbe with curiosity feigned as idleness, as they both abruptly stopped walking and grimaced. Hvitserk had even braced himself against Ubbe’s shoulder for balance as he lifted one of his legs off the ground, pressing his palm into his thigh.

Hvitserk glanced at Ubbe and Ubbe replied with a pained expression, “Ivar. He’s having a bad day.”

“It’s not a weakness,” Aslaug told Ragnar, in one of the rare moments she entertained Ragnar’s presence without one of the boys there. “It makes them stronger. That they have to work together.”

Ragnar stowed that information away. And then he started to observe more closely. He wanted to figure out if Aslaug was right; the strengths and the weaknesses. And he looked back with fresh eyes at some of the hints of the mental bond that the brothers shared;

He remembered Ivar crying as a child, in pain and too young to hide it like he did as a young man, and the others had clearly been affected in a way that seemed more than just with sympathy.

They had crowded around him, all their faces etched in echoes of physical and emotional pain.

“It’s ok, Ivar,” Hvitserk had said, through gritted teeth, eyes shining with pained tears.

Sigurd had not offered verbal support, but his expression had been too grim for a child his age as he sat himself right up against Ivar’s side, holding his small hand.

Ubbe had then distracted them all by starting a game that had slowly gotten Ivar laughing.

When Ragnar had first seen that, and several other instances before and after, he had wondered if his four youngest boys were just empathetic to each other or if there was something more, something _other_. Now, returning after a decade, he could see that they not only had a mental connection to each other, but that they knew about it, accepted it and embraced it, too. Now that Ragnar knew of it, it became more and more obvious to him.

Ubbe and Hvitserk as young children had been a typical double-act. Before Sigurd was born - when presumably Ubbe and Hvitserk had shared a mental connection just between the two of them for two years – Ubbe used to voice what Hvitserk wanted. Ragnar had found it amusing, assuming that Ubbe was only voicing that Hvitserk wanted food, for example, because Ubbe actually wanted some for himself; pretending to know what baby Hvitserk wanted so that he could gain something from it too. But Ragnar knew now that that hadn’t been true at all. Ubbe had honestly been able to tell when Hvitserk was sad, or tired, or hungry, or unwell. He hadn’t just been perceptive, able to ask his mother to give Hvitserk what he needed, or simply just provide his baby brother with hugs; he had been able to feel it, even back then. And as far as Ragnar could tell, Ubbe and Hvitserk had never questioned it, it was just how they were, and when Sigurd was born, and then Ivar, and their minds joined the connection, Ubbe and Hvitserk had apparently never been bothered by that, either.

Ragnar remembered the four boys sleeping in the same bed when they were children; Sigurd, Ubbe, Hvitserk and Ivar all in a row. Although they did not share the same bed anymore, he had seen them lying on their backs, side by side looking up at the sunshine, laughing with each other. They did not sleep in the same bed any more, now they were grown, but Ragnar had heard that they were all sharing the same slave girl.

Ragnar had seen them train together, fighting each other with uncannily acute awareness of the others’ strengths and weaknesses. And when they trained as a group together against other boys, it was like they were reading each other’s minds, taking advantage of each other’s strengths, fluid and effective. Bjorn would watch them too, sometimes, and clap and shout encouragement at them. He would swing his arm around each of them when they were done and ruffle their hair and praise them. If Bjorn was aware of the connection, which he surely had to be – he was Ragnar’s blood after all – then he never said anything, or made any sign of suspicion around his little brothers. If Bjorn was aware, he was good at ignoring it, or maybe used to it. Ragnar had been away for a long time. He was not used to it, and it was impossible for his inquisitive mind to ignore.

Each of the four young men, he came to learn, had emotions that influenced the others.

Ubbe was quick to laugh, and even if the others were in foul moods, if Ubbe started laughing, eventually they all would. Ubbe had a lot of laughs; some that were joyous, some teasing, some that sounded downright deranged. He had a mothering side to him that looked out for all his brothers and acted as mediator often. His mediating worked more often than not, and Ragnar did not know how much of that was down to them actually wanting to listen to Ubbe’s pacifications or because the connection they shared made it hard for them to ignore him. He was also the most tactile, the first to hug or affectionately grab a shoulder or a face, duck his head to look them in the eyes. And while Hvitserk was always one to reciprocate, because Ubbe and Hvitserk’s connection seemed so strong that it required only glances between them to have a whole conversation, Ubbe’s affection bled into Ivar and Sigurd’s behaviours as well.

Ivar had his dark days, which made Ubbe frown, Hvitserk quiet and Sigurd snappish, but Ivar also had his gleeful days of cunning and smirks, which had his brother’s smirking back at him with grins that were identical to Ivar’s but different from their own. Ivar never asked them for help and often he didn’t want it, but on the days that he did he never voiced it. Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd just seemed to know when Ivar did or didn’t need help, easily lifting him between them when their aid was needed without a word from either them or Ivar. They would tease him, but the gods-help anyone else who did. Ragnar was pleased with them for it, quietly proud, for loving Ivar for who he was; something that Ragnar himself had not accepted at first, when Ivar had been born.

Hvitserk was enthusiastic. There were many things that would make Hvitserk positively brim with excitement; a feast, a training fight, a ceremony. Once Hvitserk got excited about something, the other boys would almost immediately display the same eagerness, even if they had bemoaned the very thing as little as an hour before.

“Ugh,” Ivar exclaimed aloud, having just finished eating his midday meal. “I am _still_ starving.”

That was not like Ivar. From what Ragnar had seen, he mostly pecked at his food.

“It’s the feast tonight,” Sigurd said, tone deadpan, never one to encourage Ivar’s dramatics, maybe because if he did they would all start doing it. “Hvitserk has been talking about it all morning.”

“And what?” Ivar pushed his plate away, with distaste at his own hunger, “Is he keeping himself hungry? To save himself?”

“Must be,” Sigurd replied, glancing suspiciously at Ragnar, who was clearly listening in. They were speaking in another context like they assumed Ragnar hadn’t noticed. Of course Ragnar had noticed. Hvitserk was excited for the feast and the food and was preparing to eat as much as he could and it had made his brothers hungry. Sigurd had been nibbling on a loaf of bread for some time. “And he will end up drinking a lot later, no doubt.”

“Another great thing for us to experience later,” Ivar moaned. “I can’t stand as it is. I don’t need Hvitserk drinking himself out of balance. We will have to keep an eye on him.”

Sigurd hummed in agreement. “I’m quite excited for the feast,” Sigurd said.

“You were moaning about it earlier,” Ivar side-eyed him. “You mustn’t be so susceptible.”

Sigurd raised his eyebrows and stared pointedly at where Ivar was pulling his plate back towards himself and filling it up again.

Ivar scoffed for a while, before admitting, “I am looking forward to it too. Hvitserk and his gods-damned enthusiasm.”

They had shared a grin, fuelled by Hvitserk’s good mood, wherever in Kattegat he was. Before they were back to bickering good-naturedly again.

Sigurd’s influence on the others, despite being prone to rising to arguments with Ivar, was often calm and conscience. Sigurd was just as Viking as the rest of them, but he had a line that he drew on moral right and wrongness. And even though Ivar in particular seemed happy to cross that line, if Sigurd felt strongly enough about it they would all withdraw eventually.  

On Ivar’s dark days, when he was too exhausted to even goad Sigurd into an argument, nobody would acknowledge it. But Sigurd would get out his instruments and play. He would pluck on strings and hum, as though to himself, but as he relaxed, Ragnar watched out of the corner of his eye as Ivar would relax too, head resting back against Ubbe’s leg, as Ubbe and Hvitserk visibly lost tension in their muscles.

Ragnar suspected that Sigurd’s _sight_ could impact on them too, sometimes. One morning the boys looked tired, dark circles under their eyes.

Ragnar had looked around at them all questioningly. Sigurd was poking at his food. Hvitserk had his head resting heavily on one hand, the other only just about getting his spoon from his bowl to his mouth. Ubbe wasn’t even attempting to eat, face planted down on his arms where they rested on the table. Ivar, ever keen to please Ragnar and the most alert that morning, was the one that spoke.

“Weird dreams,” Ivar said by way of explanation. 

“What, all of you?” Ragnar asked, pretending to be surprised, looking around at his four boys. Aslaug had not yet joined them, and Ragnar was pleased because she probably would have tried to shut down his blatant line of inquiry.

“Well don’t look at _me_ ,” was all Ivar said before he returned to his food. “It’s Sigurd’s fault.”

“Snake-in-the-eye,” was all Sigurd said, when he glanced up at Ragnar, like that should make sense.

Ragnar knew Aslaug well enough, so it did make sense. Aslaug got visions when she slept. If Sigurd also got visions or strange dreams in his sleep, then apparently his brothers were affected by it too.

“What did you dream about?” Ragnar could not help but ask, his question directed at Sigurd.

“Tides taking people away,” Sigurd said. But he was not looking at Ragnar, nor Ivar, as Ragnar expected on hearing the words. Instead Sigurd looked at Hvitserk, and later stared at Bjorn as Bjorn ducked into the house to join them for food.

Ragnar found out why soon enough.

Bjorn announced that he intended to sail away to the sea with no tides, having attracted a crew of men that Ragnar had already tried to recruit. Ragnar wasn’t surprised. New shores were much more exciting than the bleak ones Ragnar was trying to return to. And even less surprising; the people had more faith in Bjorn than they did in Ragnar. Floki and Helga were going with Bjorn. There was even rumour that Rollo had expressed interest in joining them. And Hvitserk decided to go too.

Hvitserk announced it one evening and Ragnar watched the reactions of his family; his mother’s concern, Ivar’s envy, Sigurd and Ubbe looking at each other like they knew from Sigurd’s dream that something like that was going to happen. It later seemed to dawn on Ivar, too, that Hvitserk leaving meant that things would change. The four brothers were quiet, and even Hvitserk’s excitement at his pending adventures wasn’t enough to change their moods.

“I will have Bjorn with me!” Hvitserk reassured with an impish grin, clearly trying to ease their minds. Apparently it did not. “Well why doesn’t one of you come too?” Hvitserk said, excited but hopeful, “Then there will not be one of us alone.”

“I’m staying for father,” Ivar said.

“Mother…” Ubbe started.

“Someone has to stay at home with the people, if Bjorn and Floki are going too,” Sigurd said.

And that was that.

“Brother,” Ubbe smiled finally, a small thing, leaning to reach Hvitserk’s arm, squeezing it. “You are more than ready to go on your first true exploration and raid. You will do mother and all of us proud. Besides, we are going to have to learn to live apart as we get older. I suppose it won’t be like this forever.”

 _It will all change much sooner than you think,_ Ragnar thought. And he felt a little sorry about it. That before too long these four boys would inevitably be leading an army.

Ragnar subtly questioned Ubbe on it later, asking how the boys felt about Hvitserk’s decision to go with Bjorn. He knew that Ubbe’s answer would add further knowledge to his forthcoming plans.

“You know by now that we all have a connection,” Ubbe said easily, his honesty surprising Ragnar. “I can’t really explain it,” he said. People said that Ragnar’s second eldest son even sounded and moved like him, and although Ragnar often scoffed and denied it, it was undeniably true. Ubbe had Ragnar’s speech, face, action. And the wildness in his wide eyes. “And no-one outside of the family knows, mother told us to keep it secret. But it’s like there are invisible strings attaching us all together.” Ubbe cocked his head just like Ragnar often did. “And Hvitserk leaving, it will feel strange to be parted from him. When he went to visit Uncle Rollo without us, it was like I could feel the connection I have to him get thinner as he got further away. It’s going to happen again, but he’s going further and for longer this time. If he gets in trouble we will sense it but won’t be able to do a thing about it. I don’t like it when he is so far away from me. The others don’t either, though they try not to show it as much. They will be irritable for weeks after he leaves, just wait and see.”

But Ragnar did not intend to do much waiting after Bjorn and Hvitserk and Floki and Helga left Kattegat. He had his own work to do; his own plans to see through until the end.

***

“Do you know?” Ragnar asked Floki, before Floki could set sail with Bjorn and Hvitserk and Helga, “That my sons have a connection,” he tapped his head, “Thanks to my wife and her ways?”

“Yes I know it,” Floki said, in that slow-quick rise-fall voice of his. “Ivar has told me of it.”

He was watching Ragnar cautiously. Ragnar had not just left his sons and wife for all those years. He had left Floki too. He had still not truly forgiven Floki for killing Athelstan, but Floki had still not truly forgiven Ragnar for abandoning their gods, and therefore Floki, in the process. Their friendship had never quite healed. An open wound. Ragnar wanted to close it, at least a little, if this was to be the last time.

It was strange, sitting in the same spot where he would visit Floki, designing and building boats, but with none of their previous brotherly affection, excitement and imagination.

“They were bound to be a little strange, Ragnar,” Floki continued. “They are yours, after all.”

Ragnar hit out at him playfully and Floki danced out of reach with his high pitched ‘hee-hee’ giggle that Ragnar realised he had so sorely missed. He missed the old days, sometimes, when he and Floki had been building boats on dreams of travelling across the sea. Simpler times. He often missed Floki almost as much as he missed Athelstan, which was hard, when he knew one had killed the other. He had lost both of them that day. Floki wasn’t quite the same anymore, more hardened and wearied by the loss of his daughter, the loss of Ragnar’s affection. It was nice to see a little bit of Floki’s old self crack through the mask.

“And you have made Ivar stranger still,” Ragnar commented with a tilting smile. “You have been his mentor.”

Floki shifted, uncertain. “Yes. Aslaug asked me to teach him of the old ways and the gods, make things that he can use with which to walk and ride like any other man.”

Floki had clearly not been expecting Ragnar to thank him, as when Ragnar did, his old friend turned to stare at him with wide-eyed surprise.

“You have taught Ivar things that I had lost faith in,” Ragnar said. “You have helped him in ways I could not. He may not know quite how much, yet, but that boy is a force to be reckoned with. You have helped make him that way.”

Floki nodded in acknowledgment. “He is blessed by the gods,” he said, before adding, without any doubt or hesitation, “As you are.”

Ragnar hummed, uncertain, before turning away to wander along the stretch of rocks out into the water. He stooped to pick up a handful of small stones, throwing a couple into the water. A few moments later, Floki followed and joined him.

“You are going with Bjorn,” Ragnar said, looking out at the water. “To the sea with no tides. Not with me to England.”

“Not back there, Ragnar,” Floki said. Bad memories lay there for them both, now. “No. Helga would like to see a new place, and so would I.”

“I have a feeling if you don’t come with me,” Ragnar said, keeping his voice level, trying not to give away his intentions to a friend who had far too much sight to keep things from. “I will never see you again.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Ragnar,” Floki replied, and Ragnar knew that Floki was watching him, seeing and understanding all the things Ragnar did not want – yet also hoped – him to see. “And after all, whatever the fates have in store for us we’re sure to meet again in Valhalla.” Floki’s hand found Ragnar’s shoulder. “Imagine the joy we’ll have. And all the old friends we will meet again, and fight with again in true fellowship. Torstein, Arne, and all the others.” He sounded like he was looking forward to it. Ragnar liked the sound of it. “And you and I we shall sit among the gods and sup with them, and get drunk with them, and tell our stories.” There was a long pause, in which Floki had clearly hoped for a more passionate reaction from Ragnar. “Speak to me, Ragnar.”

“I don’t know,” Ragnar finally admitted, unable to look his old friend in the eye.

“What is it you don’t know?”

“If I’ll see you in Valhalla.” He finally glanced at Floki, taking in his stunned expression and flicking his gaze away again. Floki looked stunned, but they both knew what Athelstan’s presence in Ragnar’s life had led to. Too much interest in other faiths, turning from their gods, even renouncing his faith; for a tactical manoeuvre, but he had done it nonetheless.

“Don’t say that, Ragnar,” Floki sounded devastated at the thought of Ragnar not being in those halls, supping and telling stories with gods and old friends, “If anyone deserves to go to Valhalla it’s you.”

Ragnar hoped that to be true. He had old friends to see again, and one day, his sons to meet again. A little heartened by Floki’s unwavering faith in him, even after all they had been through, it was Ragnar who reached out that time, to put his hand on Floki’s shoulder.

“Watch over my family,” he asked of him. Floki was leaving Kattegat for now, but he would have Bjorn and Hvitserk with him. And Ivar would need Floki too, once Floki returned, and Ivar returned, because Ragnar already knew that Ivar would join Ragnar to England. Ragnar glanced at Helga, watching them sadly from the distance. “And take care of Helga. You don’t deserve her.” He laughed, even when his heart was heavy with a final farewell with such an old friend.

He skimmed his last stone into the water.

“I love you,” he told Floki, long overdue, but could not look at him as he turned away and started to walk back along the rocks to the shore.

He heard Floki’s relieved and tearful ‘hee-hee’ behind him. Heard him start to cry. And then, as Ragnar walked away across the shore he heard his old friend shout, “I love you too, Ragnar Lothbrok!”

And for the first time in a long time, Ragnar truly believed, knew, that Valhalla was still awaiting his arrival.

***

Ragnar hovered in the near distance, watching Bjorn say goodbye to Torvi and his children. He then watched Bjorn and Hvitserk as they said goodbye to their mothers and brothers beside the boats. Bjorn and Lagertha’s strong bond was as clear as ever as they hugged tightly and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Hvitserk hugged his mother and brothers tightly, exchanging words, pressing his forehead to Ubbe’s, blood brothers.

Ragnar watched Ivar and Floki shoot barbed words at each other, jesting, before Ragnar’s lanky, genius friend knelt to give Ivar a hug. Floki’s eyes met Ragnar’s over Ivar’s shoulder, and Ragnar could see Floki’s arm tighten, the kiss that he pressed to the boy’s head. Ragnar nodded, understanding. He and Floki had shared their words, their love, they had had their last moment. No need to retrace steps, reopen wounds.

As they sailed away, Sigurd and Ivar watched the boat into the distance, Ivar with longing, Sigurd vigilant. Hvitserk was staring back at them, maintaining eye contact for as long as distance allowed. Ubbe turned away eventually, his jaw set, and Ragnar wondered if they could already feel that distance in their connection.

Ragnar had said his own goodbyes to Bjorn and Hvitserk; two of his five sons. It had been, after all, the last time that he would lay eyes on them in that life.

To Bjorn, his first born, his and Lagertha’s boy, now a man so respected and influential, he had said, “I know I did not have much to do with it, in the end,” he had cocked his head, “But I am proud of the man you have become.”

Bjorn had clasped his shoulder, searching Ragnar’s face. “You had everything to do with it. You are a great man, father.”

_“The gods have given me sons, as they promised. But I want to know what the future holds. What will become of them?”_

_“The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok will be spoken of as long as men have tongues to speak.”_

_“They will enjoy that much fame?”_

_“One of them will marry the daughter of a king. Another will discover and sail around the sea that has no tides. All of this and more have I foreseen.”_

_“Then they will have more fame than I, their father. What about Bjorn? What about my son Bjorn?”_

_“What of him?”_

_“Is he alive?”_

_“It is of him I was speaking.”_

“You will be greater,” Ragnar had said.

It would be as the Seer prophesised, he had no doubt. When once he had been rather bemused by the thought of his sons gaining more fame than he, when he had looked at Bjorn, about to fulfil his sail around the sea that has no tides, he had known it would undoubtedly be true. Bjorn would be greater, do greater things than Ragnar, and Ragnar was proud.

“I will see you when I return,” Bjorn had said slowly, meaningfully, still searching Ragnar’s face, still able to read him disarmingly well.

“Mmm,” Ragnar had hummed with a sharp nod and a sharper smile. “When you return to me.” _In the halls of Valhalla, because that is where I am going to go, I am sure of it now._

Bjorn had paused, watching for another moment, taking in Ragnar’s face like he knew this was more than a goodbye-for-now. Bjorn had hugged him tight but, just like both of them had done to each other before in the past, Bjorn left.

Ragnar had also said goodbye to Hvitserk, this third son. He was a pretty boy, Ragnar had observed; took after his mother.

“I am sailing new seas like you did,” Hvitserk had told him, grinning with excitement.

And although Ragnar had only been back in Kattegat for mere months, he knew Hvitserk. Hvitserk was more of a conqueror than an explorer. Hvitserk’s eyes had been gleaming at the thought of the glory and adventure and all the riches to be won. Ragnar could relate to that side of new worlds as well. Ragnar remembered the riches of England on their first few raids and his excitement at taking them. Though his greatest treasure taken had turned out to be a man; a Christian man.

“There will be much to see,” Ragnar had humoured him, knowing it would be the last time he would see Hvitserk in this world. Not for the first time, he had regretted not spending more time with him and his brothers, for not coming back sooner. “New treasures, new lands, new seas, new foods…”

Hvitserk enjoyed his food. It was a little trivial piece of personality that Ragnar was glad to have learned before they parted ways. As expected, Hvitserk had looked intrigued at the thought.

“I am proud to sail with Bjorn,” Hvitserk had said. _And Rollo will likely be there too, I have no doubt,_ Ragnar had thought bitterly, his brother’s fondness of Hvitserk irking him once more, until Hvitserk had continued, “But I would like to sail with you too, one day. I am sorry I can’t join you to England.”

Ragnar had shrugged a shoulder. “I have one or two more options left.”

“You have three,” Hvitserk had told him, defensive on his youngest brother’s behalf. “Ivar would go, I know it.”

Fond, Ragnar had cupped Hvitserk’s face. “I know, my son,” he had said, had pressed their foreheads together, “I am counting on it.”

***

It was all well and good Ragnar knowing that he would go to Valhalla, but of course, Ragnar had to die first. And he had things to achieve before then. Revenge to exact on those English kings.

So he pretended like Ivar was his last choice, his last resort, when really, Ivar had been the one he wanted – needed – with him all along.

Ivar was determined to go. The others were happy to stay. Ubbe for the family; as his mother’s rock. Sigurd for the people.

Ragnar rallied himself a crew of men well past their prime. Just like he was, now, he supposed. They could all go down together. Apart from Ivar, of course. It was crucial that Ivar live.

(Ragnar remembered the day he had wanted a crippled baby to die, because what kind of a life could he have led - a strong, determined, beautiful one, it turned out.)

Ivar had to live. He was important. More important and with more potential than he could ever know. Ragnar had seen it in him.

His brothers had potential too; warriors and leaders, all of them, even if they were so different in personality.

Ragnar found Sigurd staring out at the water, when he found him to say goodbye.

“You know I have a sight,” Sigurd said, as he had told Ragnar already.

“I do know.”

“Then you should know that I’ve seen something,” Sigurd looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I have seen snakes. I don’t know what it means.”

“Don’t you always see snakes?” Ragnar jested.

The snake in Sigurd’s eye moved as he rolled his eyes. “Not like that. Other snakes. I don’t know what it means,” Sigurd said again, “I just know that it’s bad. But I think you know that already, and I think that you want to go anyway.”

“I will go regardless,” Ragnar confirmed, moving to stand beside Sigurd, their shoulders brushing. They both looked out at the water. “I know you have no real love for me…”

“I have love for you,” Sigurd said. “And respect. But you will gain all of it from me when Ivar returns safe. I know he and I have our differences, but I love him. I don’t know how any of us would cope with a loss. Just…let him come home.”

“He will return,” Ragnar said.

“But not you,” Sigurd said, like he already knew.

“No. Not me.”

“Then this is goodbye. For now.”

“For now,” Ragnar agreed. He reached up to squeeze at the back of Sigurd’s neck, past all that long blonde hair. He looked him dead in the eye, his snake-in-the-eye. “Until then, put that seeing eye of yours to use. It might be a matter of life and death one day.”

“It already has seen matters of life and death.”

“More fool me, then.”

“Yes,” Sigurd agreed, gifting Ragnar with a fond smile quite unlike the ones he had given him before. A fond, sad one. Ragnar knew then, that he really had earned his son’s love and respect once more. “More fool you.”

Ubbe did not have the sight that Sigurd did. “It has been good to get to know you again,” Ubbe said, when Ragnar tracked him down next. “Maybe don’t leave it so long this time?”

Ragnar decided not to let him think too differently, because gods, did it look like Ragnar was staring into the face of his younger self.

“One day we will find each other again,” Ragnar said, “And I promise I won’t leave you again when that day comes.” He stepped forwards, held his son’s face, like he had when he had returned with a shout of ‘ _who wants to be king?’_ “King Ubbe,” Ragnar tested.

His son and heir. With his hair. And his eyes. And his face. But yet, so different a person to Ragnar. Ragnar wondered if Ubbe would grow to be the man that Ragnar had been, years ago, when he had settled into farming life with his wife and son and daughter, heading out on raids every now again for a bit of fun, a bit of fortune, a bit of fight and fire. If Ubbe became that man, then Ragnar knew that Ubbe wouldn’t stray from it. Not like Ragnar had strayed. Ubbe was a powerful man that did not need power to be satisfied. He just needed fun, and fight, and family.

“King Ubbe,” Ubbe said, “Will not exist until the day that mother has had enough of ruling.” He searched Ragnar’s face, head twitching to the side at almost exactly the same time that Ragnar’s did. “Look after Ivar,” Ubbe said. “Having Hvitserk so far away is bad enough, but to have Ivar gone too…we have all not been so distantly separated at once before.”

The boys had been reporting to their mother every so often about their brothers’ adventures, which also boded well for Bjorn’s health as well. But because of the distance they only seemed to be able to feel the connection when Hvitserk was feeling an emotion very strongly.

“He’s excited, nervous,” Ivar had said at dinner one night, “He’s ready for a fight. A raid.”

“He’s triumphant,” Sigurd had said, not very long later. “Seems they are doing well.”

“He’s alive,” Ubbe had confirmed, because that was the most important thing. Family always seemed to come first with Ubbe.

“I will look after your family, Ubbe,” Ragnar now promised.

“ _Your_ family,” Ubbe corrected, pulling Ragnar into a hug, and Ragnar held on tight, eyes misted. “We are _your_ sons. The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok,” Ubbe whispered fiercely in his ear. “The sons of a legend.”

 _The father of legends._ Even if Ragnar had not had the Seer’s prophecy all those years ago, he still would have been able to see it. He might become legend, but his sons would be greater still.

The mother of those future legends was furious.

“You cannot take Ivar!” she cried out for the hundredth time.

“He wants to come,” Ragnar shrugged. He was pretty sure they had had this argument twice already. “So let him come.”

“Why? Why are you doing this? What good will it do you to take him? I have a horrible feeling about this Ragnar. A horrible feeling. Something terrible is going to happen. Something terrible is going to happen to our boy.”

“And yet you did not feel the same when Ubbe and Hvitserk fell through the ice?” Ragnar liked to bring that one up sometimes. Spiteful, but fair. “But I suppose you were quite busy and _distracted_.”

“I cannot choose what I see, Ragnar! But I foresaw the snake in Sigurd’s eye. I warned you about what would happen at Ivar’s conception! I know you believe me and if you take him then…”

“I already know,” Ragnar interrupted. “I already know challenges face us. Sigurd has already warned me of it. He has seen things too, you know. And he does not mind us going. He knows I will keep Ivar safe.”

“I just,” Aslaug sat down heavily, her head in her hand. “I love these boys more than my own life, Ragnar. And you and your Bjorn and your brother come back whenever you like and just, take them all from me. I thought I had more time.”

While it was true that Aslaug had been wayward, bitter, for a time, after Harbard, after Siggy’s death, after Ragnar’s treatment because he had loved Aslaug for her mind and her sons, but not for her person - not like he had loved Lagertha – she had grown strong again as Ivar had grown older and stronger. She had raised the four boys as best she could with love, care and attention. And she had done an incredible job. She had ruled Kattegat as its queen. She even welcomed Bjorn into her home, and she and Lagertha were now on better terms with each other than Ragnar was with either of them. United in their exasperation with him, no doubt. Fair.

“You are a Queen, Aslaug,” Ragnar said. “Not even my queen. A queen in your own right. You have ruled Kattegat longer than I have and have done a far better job of it. It is yours. You have raised those boys on your own. They are different, special, because of you and you are right. It makes them stronger. They are yours.”

“They are yours too, Ragnar,” she said, those intelligent eyes watching him, and he regretted. He regretted treating her like he had, he had made her stronger, yes, but he had also hardened her in too many ways. “Your body, spirit, soul and mind; your four boys. Ubbe looks more like you every day, but he is not you at all. Hvitserk has your free spirit, Sigurd has the soul you abandoned, and Ivar, Ivar has your mind. You think you can manipulate that mind? Think again.”

“I won’t manipulate it,” Ragnar vowed. “I will utilise it.”

 She nodded grimly. “Yes, utilise. Use them all, because Bjorn has your heart, and you want a new adventure, just like he does. You will use them as all the remaining pieces of you to exact your revenges and achieve what you could not in your little games. You think I do not know? You think I cannot see?”

“I know all too well that you can see,” Ragnar said. “Which also means that you can see that Ivar is not going to change his mind. And I am not going to discourage our boy from a voyage overseas.”

“With you as leader and old and unfit men as a crew and raiding party?” she scoffed, “Ivar deserves better. Ivar is a prince.”

“Ivar will be a king,” Ragnar promised her. “I have no doubt about that.”

They just had to take down a couple of current kings, first.

The day came to leave. Ubbe grasped Ivar’s head, blue eyes staring into blue, before pulling Ivar’s head into his chest to hug him. Sigurd crouched down beside them, squeezing Ivar’s shoulder. Their mother had peppered Ivar’s face with kisses in the house, away from the eyes of others, so now she only bent her long legs to press a kiss to his hair. And not long later the three of them were distant figures on the shoreline.

“Will you miss them?” Ragnar asked.

Ivar shrugged. “Not really.”

Ragnar raised an eyebrow at him.

Ivar waved his hand around dismissively. “They irritate me sometimes, with their lack of faith.” _In me, in you_ went unspoken _._ But then his face became serious. His eyes widened and he looked a little wistful. “But I would not be who I am without them.”

The storm came unexpectedly. The waves high and crashing. Ragnar remembered Ivar screaming, tying his youngest son to the mast of the ship so that he didn’t get thrown overboard. Ivar’s wide eyes as they both looked at the magnificent wave approaching them. The capsizing was rough. Ragnar only just managed to untie Ivar from the mast before the ruins of the boat dragged him down.

They awoke on the shore, face down in the sand. But they were alive.

“Mother saw that, last night. I could feel her presence. She was most upset.” Ivar told Ragnar, all of a sudden, as they rested, exhausted, a little way away from the survivors of the raiding party. “She thought I was dead.”

“And your brothers?” Ragnar asked, not bothering to hide that he knew of the brothers’ connection. It was more than obvious that he already knew, and Ivar did not seem surprised at the question and his answer came quick and honest.

“They felt it,” Ivar said. “Hvitserk, wherever he is. Ubbe and Sigurd,” he tapped the side of his head slowly. “They are not happy. But…” he shrugged. “They know I am alive so they can tell mother that I am not dead.”

Ragnar had seen the fear in his son’s face the night before, remembered his screams. He wondered how much of that Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd had felt. Had they heard Ivar’s screams? Had they been staggered by the sudden surge of fear? Had Ubbe’s eyes widened like Ivar and Ragnar’s had been, had Sigurd turned pale, because he had been able to see as well as feel what had happened? Had Hvitserk been brought to his knees in a boat in another sea and when Bjorn rushed to him and demanded to know what was wrong, had he told Bjorn about what he could feel? That Ivar and Ragnar had been in a dangerous situation? Ragnar did not know. He still had a lot of intrigue about how far and how strong his sons’ connection was.

“It is useful then? Do you see it as a strength to you? Or a weakness?” Ragnar knew Ubbe’s take on it; he accepted it was a part of them, he didn’t see anything wrong with it, but he didn’t like it when the bond was tested. Ragnar wanted Ivar’s opinion on it, because if any of them was going to test that bond, it was Ivar.

“It is a gift,” Ivar said. “Most of the time.”

Ragnar waited, raised his eyebrows, indicating that Ivar should expand on his answer.

Ivar huffed but continued, looking thoughtful. “I am connected to all of them. It means I can’t hide much from them. And that…that I don’t like sometimes. But their influences, their good and their reason, and knowing that we can fight as one, that is a strength to someone like me. And my influence can be a strength to them too, and I like that.” His mouth quirked into a sheepish grin and he picked at his sleeve, “It also means I cannot kill them even if I wanted to. Not even Sigurd. It’d take a part of me too, I think. And,” he gestured at his legs, “I need all the parts of me I have left.”

“Well, it is nice to know that you won’t go murdering each other, I suppose,” Ragnar cocked his head, smirked at him.

Ivar rolled his eyes and leant over to shove Ragnar’s shoulder. “Maybe if you had had the same gift as us, you and your brother wouldn’t have tried to murder each other so much, old man.”

Rollo was still a sore point to Ragnar, even after so many years, remembering how it had been when they had stood side by side in battle, rather than against each other. But he could not help but laugh at Ivar’s cheekiness. His boy was blunt and bold and unapologetic. He had a sense of humour very similar to Ragnar’s own.

He was also everything that Ragnar-of-old could never have dreamed he could become.

He and Ragnar were a good team.

They were a good team when they dispatched of the remaining, mutinous members of their band of men. Ivar was effective and ruthless. People never expected it of him until it was too late. That was what Ragnar was relying on; knowing his sons strengths, that Ivar was brilliant, when nobody else would see past his disability.

Ivar would give Ragnar updates on his brothers. His usual sensing of their moods informed him that they were worried. Worried about him and each other. But sometimes it was different.

One time he abruptly laughed aloud. When Ragnar looked at him questioningly, Ivar cocked his head, rubbed a hand over the back of his head. “Ubbe,” he said. “He is not feeling worried for once.”

Another time he started humming a song, fingers shaping out the positions on an instrument Ragnar knew that Ivar had never been bothered to learn. “Sigurd knows I hate this one,” he muttered, to himself, but continued humming anyway.

On another occasion Ivar tapped Ragnar’s shoulder so that Ragnar could put him down. When Ragnar did Ivar was staring, taking deep steadying breaths. He looked stunned.

“What is it?” Ragnar asked, crouching down beside him with a hand on his shoulder. He needed Ivar well enough to make it to Wessex and then to make it home.

“Hvitserk,” Ivar said, pressing a hand into his own chest and Ragnar watched him with a new concern, concern for Hvitserk. “Something happened. A near miss, I guess.” But then a moment or two later Ivar smiled brightly, his demeanour changing entirely. “He’s ok. We can go again now.”

Ragnar wondered if all the boys did similar things. To an outsider, it would make Ivar look crazy. It probably made them all look crazy. But Ragnar knew better than most that it was ok to be a little crazy. He reckoned he himself had been for a long time.

 _“They were bound to be a little strange, Ragnar,”_ he heard Floki say. _“They are yours, after all.”_

Yes, maybe his boys were a little crazy, too.

Ragnar carried Ivar for miles. Ivar called him a donkey. They threw insults at each other, calling each other ‘stupid’ and ‘idiot’ and ‘old man’ and ‘cripple’. Ragnar tried to make Ivar laugh as much as possible, which was surprisingly quite a lot. It was nice, to hear laughter and to jest, even knowing what he was walking them towards. And he could not help but wonder if Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd could feel that Ivar was happy, that Ragnar was keeping him safe.

When the time finally came, and they reached their destination, Ragnar told Ivar to let their soon-to-be captors see and treat him as a cripple. Ragnar let them take Ivar away from him and lock Ragnar in a cage.

He let Ecbert have his words, let him say; “I cannot kill you, and yet you must die. This much is certain.”

And then he put his plan in motion. He suggested that Ecbert hand him over to King Aelle

“My sons know that I have come to Wessex to see you. What do you think they’ll do, once they hear of my death?” Ragnar asked. “They will come over here and they will rip the lungs out of all of you. There will be no escape. They will avenge me.” That was the truth. Because he knew of Bjorn’s power and he had seen glimpses of the fire and fierce warriors in his other four boys. He knew that they could – and would – be ruthless.

He begged Ecbert to let Ivar go home. He played upon what he knew Ecbert would see; Ivar a cripple and of no threat to him. Ecbert had even commented to Ragnar ‘he’s a sweet boy’. Oh, he would soon see the truth of that.

“Let my crippled son Ivar go home. He is obviously of no threat to you.” A lie. Ivar was as much – if not more – a threat than any of Ragnar’s other sons, for his unpredictability and because people, even Ragnar once upon a time, had underestimated him. “You just make sure my son gets home safely.”

“You have my word. And in return?” Because Ecbert never did anything unless he could get something from it in return.

“I will tell my son Ivar to tell his brothers that you did everything you could to save me; that you and I, we are sworn friends. And that King Aelle was solely responsible for my death. That way, when my sons come back, and they will, they will spare you, my friend. And they will take out all their revenge on King Aelle.”

And that, that had been another lie. But it worked. Ecbert agreed to let Ivar go home. He agreed to hand Ragnar over to King Aelle. He also let Ragnar say goodbye to Ivar.

This goodbye, this one was hard. To the others it had been a ‘see you later’ farewell. This time, Ivar knew for sure that Ragnar was going to die.

He knew that Ivar did not like it in Wessex. He did not understand the language, and because the soldiers and Ecbert believed him to be useless with his disability, they carried him around and Ragnar knew Ivar hated acting helpless. But he had done it. He knew Ivar didn’t quite understand, but his boy was intelligent and he would realise it soon enough. He hated those intelligent eyes looking at him so imploringly. Wanting Ragnar to tell him what to do, waiting for him to get them out of there. No, this boy was a leader. He should not need Ragnar to tell him what to do.

“I have some good news. King Ecbert has arranged for a boat. You are going home.”

“I’m not going without you.”

“They aren’t going to release me. I have to die.”

Ivar scoffed and leaned back in his chair with angry sass. “Then I’ll die too. I’m thinking off being burnt alive.” His stubborn, stubborn boy.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ragnar said. “I don’t want you to die.” He remembered a baby crying in the forest. He did not want Ivar to die. “It is far more important that you stay alive.” He walked towards his son sitting in that big wooden chair. “People think that you are not a threat but I know differently. Out of all of my sons it was you I wanted to bring here. Because you, Ivar, you are important to the future of our people.”

Ivar did not look like he believed him. “I’m just about prepared to believe you.”

Ragnar grabbed his shirt. “Shut up and listen you idiot. You have many gifts.” He tapped on the side of Ivar’s head with his fingers. “What is in here is a gift. You do not think like other men. You are unpredictable. And that will serve you well. Use your anger intelligently and I promise you my son that one day the whole world will know and fear Ivar the Boneless.”

Ivar ducked his head, lips thin. “I wish I wasn’t so angry all the time.”

Ragnar let go of Ivar’s shirt and straightened it out, before leaning on the arms of the chair, looking right into his youngest son’s face. “Then you would be nothing.”

He knew that Ivar would know what he meant; Ivar’s anger, his determination, his cunning and drive, it was vital. It was those attributes that Ivar often felt strongly, and it was what influenced the others via their connection. His brothers needed Ivar’s anger to drive them forward. Without it, Ivar would not be such as strong a piece to the power that he and his brothers could wield.

“I might’ve been happy,” Ivar said.

“Happiness is nothing” Ragnar said. “Not to you.” Ivar had Ubbe and Hvitserk and Sigurd’s happiness to combine with his own. Ivar did not need to focus on happiness because the others made him happy instead. Ivar had to focus elsewhere. It was important that he did. He had to focus on his strengths to the connection, just as his brothers each had their own to share.

Ivar’s intelligent mind followed what Ragnar was meaning. He smirked. “I was only joking, idiot.” He slapped the side of Ragnar’s head.

Ragnar loved this boy. He loved all of his sons. But, after Ivar striving for Ragnar’s love for so long, he had been the one to work hardest to earn it. Ragnar regretted that, sometimes. He was glad he had had the last weeks to get to know Ivar better, to discover how much Ivar’s mind was like his own. He leaned forwards, resting his forehead against Ivar’s. He stayed there for a moment, preparing for what came next. Finally, he moved so to speak into Ivar’s ear. “Ecbert is handing me over to King Aelle, who will kill me.” He leant back.

Ivar was staring at him with his wide, blue eyes. “If this Aelle is going to kill you then me and all my brothers will seek him for revenge and you know that.”

Ivar was figuring it out already. He had been the right one of his sons to join him on his quest. He had known it all along. “Yes. Oh, you must seek revenge, but not on Aelle.” He leant forward once more to whisper “On Ecbert,” into Ivar’s ear.

They looked into each other’s eyes once more and Ivar nodded, a little shakily, Ragnar seeing that brilliant mind working behind those blue eyes.

“Everyone will always underestimate you,” Ragnar voiced aloud. “You must make them pay for it.”

Ragnar took off his arm ring and looking through misted eyes into Ivar’s tearful ones, he pressed the ring into Ivar’s hands, which held onto Ragnar’s own for a moment. Ivar inhaled shakily, quietly shedding tears, because Ivar knew pain enough by then to cry silently.

“I will, father,” Ivar promised, his voice breaking on the tears.

Gods, Ragnar wished he had taken more time. He smiled at Ivar, hoped that he would see him one day, in years to come. The door started to open and Ragnar knew he had no time left in the present. He grabbed Ivar’s head, leaned in once more, the last time, to whisper “Be ruthless,” to the son who he knew would maintain that promise. He pressed a kiss to Ivar’s temple and held onto his hand until the two soldiers pulled it from his grasp as Ivar’s arms were slung over their shoulders and he was carried away. Ivar looked back at him the whole time. But Ragnar, Ragnar had to look forward, now. And so did Ivar.

And so Ecbert delivered Ragnar to King Aelle. Ragnar suffered. Ragnar saw many things during his final days. He saw Odin. He saw Athelstan and Lagertha and Rollo and Floki and Aslaug. He saw his six children; Gyda, his beautiful only daughter and he saw his five sons, Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar.

His five sons.

“How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered,” he said to Aelle.

The pit of snakes must have been the snakes that Sigurd had foreseen. The bites were excruciating, but he looked to the sky and felt calm as he thought of them all, all over again; Athelstan and Lagertha and Rollo and Floki and Aslaug. He saw Gyda, his beautiful only daughter.

And the Sons of Ragnar Lothbrok.

_“It gladdens me to know that Odin prepares for a feast. Soon I shall be drinking ale from curved horns! I shall not enter Odin’s halls with fear. I shall wait for my sons to join me. And when they do, I will bask in their tales of triumph!”_

And just as Ragnar Lothbrok shouted to those who had waited to watch him die, the Aesir welcomed him. His death came without apology. The Valkyries summoned him home. And Odin was waiting for him in Odin’s halls. Where Ragnar, in turn, would wait for his sons.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his Christening, despite his love for Athelstan, despite his wavered devotions and his voiced doubts to Floki, Ragnar had made it to Valhalla. Because he had entered Odin’s halls without fear, without apology. He knew who he was. Viking.

Odin’s halls. The place of legendary Vikings. And yes, Ragnar was a legend. He could feast in Odin’s great hall with the other warriors and heroes. Torstein was there, and Leif, and Arne and Erik.

But there were smaller halls, too, that Ragnar could go to, away from the great hall of Odin’s chosen warriors and heroes. He also found that in some of those halls, there were windows in which he could look out to other places. He could look out and see the fields in which Gyda now resided, away from the warriors because of her good heart and death of innocence. He could see her sometimes, and speak to her, his daughter, still so young and beautiful. He wanted to hold her tight, press a kiss to her hair, her forehead, her cheek, but he could not reach her from the halls, not yet. He had told her how much he had missed her. Because no matter how many sons he had, he had only had one daughter, taken from him too soon.

He could see glimpses of Athelstan through other windows, sometimes, if he looked hard enough; far away from him and only for a moment, but still enchanting.

Mainly, through those windows, he found that he could look out and down; watch over what was happening on Earth below. All of this was possible because he and Odin had come to an arrangement of sorts, because he and Odin had been messengers for each other for years.

He watched Odin deliver the message of his death to his sons.

Odin went to Bjorn and Hvitserk, who were standing looking out at the Mediterranean Ocean with Rollo and Harald and Halfdan.

“This is further than our people have ever come,” Bjorn was saying. “Further than Ragnar dreamed.”

Ragnar _had_ dreamed, but Bjorn was right; never so far, never in that direction.

He watched Bjorn and Hvitserk, though not standing directly beside each other, hear the ravens call of Odin and turn their heads at exactly the same time. He watched them turn fully from the others and walk together, staring at the ravens, and stopping, Hvitserk standing just slightly behind and above his older brother on the rocks. Ragnar watched them hear his own voice.

_How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered._

“Hvitserk, did you hear him too?” Bjorn asked.

“Yes,” Hvisterk’s voice was almost lost on the wind.

And then Odin appeared to them, standing amongst the ravens.

Hvitserk looked to Bjorn for an answer, but Bjorn was already grieving.

“My father is dead,” Bjorn said. There were tears in his eyes. He glanced back at Hvitserk and then back to where Odin stood no longer. “Our father is dead.”

Hvitserk looked back too, the confusion fading, enlightenment and shock taking its place.

Ragnar could not linger there. For at the same time, Odin was in Kattegat.

Ragnar saw Ivar hammering at a sword in the forge, focused, determined. Ragnar was relieved, more than anything, to see that his youngest had returned home safely into the arms of his mother and brothers and had been able to relay Ragnar’s message about Ecbert and Aelle. That message had clearly spurred the three sons in Kattegat to prepare and train for battle; Ivar was forging swords, Ubbe was fixing arrows, Sigurd sharpening axes.

Odin spoke to Ivar, and only Ivar. Maybe because Ivar had the biggest belief in the gods or maybe because, as Floki and Aslaug believed, the gods had blessed him.

“Ivar,” Odin said. “Your father is dead. Killed by serpents.” Odin reached out and took hold of Ivar’s face. Ragnar’s youngest boy’s face. “Cold, in the cold iron earth, Ragnar lies.”

And Ragnar could see the pain, the rage in his boy. But he could not linger.

Sigurd was sharpening an axe. Odin approached, but it was Sigurd, with his sight, that looked up and spotted him. It was Sigurd that walked to Odin, curious and unafraid. Odin laid his hands on Sigurd’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. Sigurd stared back. Odin did not speak, because Ragnar and Odin both knew that Sigurd could see what he needed to see in those eyes. See the snakes he had foretold of.

Ubbe was fixing arrows when he heard and saw the ravens. He stopped, visibly grimacing, feeling all of his brothers’ pains at once. Ubbe spotted Odin and Odin did not need to approach, Ubbe did not need to hear Odin’s words or Ragnar’s words, or look into Odin’s eyes like all the others had. Ubbe just knew. Because he could _feel_ it. Odin said nothing, Ubbe said nothing. The arrow he was holding in his hands snapped in two.

Their father was dead.

Ragnar went back to Bjorn and Hvitserk for a little while. He saw when Rollo came to ask them what they were staring at, and when Hvitserk told him with his voice wavering, still wide-eyed and stunned.

Ragnar watched his own brother’s eyes grow wide and soft. Watched him pull Hvitserk into a hug, hold Hvitserk’s head to his chest, and he rested a hand on Bjorn’s shoulder as Bjorn continued to stare out at the distance; the son with all the maps and plans truly lost for a moment. Bjorn eventually shrugged Rollo off, still unforgiving, but Rollo stayed with Hvitserk a little longer; his favourite of Ragnar’s sons. And Rollo hugged Ragnar’s son like he hadn’t been able to, or wanted to, hug Ragnar in years. As though Hvitserk, that reminded Rollo of Rollo’s younger self, was a chance at some kind of redemption. If he moulded Hvitserk enough, then Hvitserk would continue to be the brother that Rollo hadn’t managed to be for Ragnar.

“I’m sorry,” Rollo said, into Hvitserk’s temple, and Ragnar did not know whether it was meant for Ragnar himself, or for Hvitserk’s loss.

Ragnar did not know if he accepted the apology. He supposed he would have to wait and see; if Rollo ever made it to Odin’s halls, now that he was living as a baptised king.

Ragnar saw Floki receive the news from Bjorn, later. Floki had clearly expected it, after his and Ragnar’s conversation before Floki had left on the voyage. He had already known. He had already shed his tears and accepted. So in the face of Bjorn’s quiet, tearful grief, Floki smiled and reached out to pat Bjorn’s head, despite Bjorn now being twice the size of him in bulk.

“It is not goodbye, Bjorn,” he told Bjorn with utmost confidence. “He will be waiting in Valhalla. He will be watching. You must continue to do him proud, that’s all.” Floki had turned his smile to Helga and reached out for her hand. “If I know Ragnar,” he said, “He will be watching all of us, right now.”

Because Floki, that crafty soul, had his own ways with the gods and he knew.

Aslaug had her own ways with the gods too, of course. Ubbe, Sigurd and Ivar found her and informed her that they had all separately seen Odin and his ravens.

“You all have been blessed with sight,” Aslaug told them, proudly. She glanced at Sigurd, “Some more than others. That is a blessed thing.”

“Blessed?” Ivar spat, “Mother, Odin told us that father is dead!”

Ragnar watched his second wife nod, her face saddened and grim, but more of a reaction to the devastation of her boys than any grief for Ragnar. Not that Ragnar could blame her. Aslaug mourned for the marriage and the husband that could have been, rather than the one she had had, in the end.

“I had a feeling,” she said, “I knew this day was coming. I just did not expect it so soon.”

“Expect what so soon?” Lagetha asked, coming into the room, observing the grieving faces of the three boys.

That had come as a surprise to Ragnar. Lagertha was there, in Kattegat. She was currently licking wounds from being betrayed by the people she ruled in Hedeby, and had brought her shield maidens with her to Kattegat to plan a counterattack. Because it now came to be that Aslaug was her ally and they all seemed to be living harmoniously.

Despite initial and understandable resentment when the boys had all been young and the wounds still fresh, the two women seemed to have come to an understanding in Ragnar’s long absence.  He had done them both wrong and they had both been left by him. It had been accepted by both of them that Lagertha had been his great love, his wife, and Aslaug the mother of his many sons, his queen. They had become, tentatively at first, and more confidently, it appeared, friends and allies. 

Ragnar knew, but he was not sure how he knew (because he had still been alive at that point) that his two wives had overseen sacrifices for their sons; for the safety and success of Bjorn and Hvitserk travelling in unknown seas, and Ivar away with Ragnar in England. He knew that Aslaug had told Lagertha about her visions of the storm, but that the boys believed Ivar, at least, to still be alive.

Ubbe and Sigurd seemed to like Lagertha too; the former of whom was a marvel to Lagertha, who had known Ragnar at the same age as Ubbe was now, and she was still amazed at their similarity in looks. Ivar seemed to tolerate her, but was wary of her, ever watchful, as he was with most people who weren’t immediate family.

Ragnar watched Aslaug turn towards Lagertha. “I am sorry Lagertha.  It seems the boys have each received word from Odin. Ragnar is dead.”

To Lagertha’s credit, she gave little physical reaction of her devastation other than her expression hardening, ever the shield maiden, the warrior, so used to grim circumstances and bad news by that point. She was beautiful, her strength something Ragnar had always admired.

“How?” Lagertha asked, stunned, coming to sit, wearily, between Aslaug and Ubbe at the table.

“Just as father said,” Ivar said, “King Ecbert handed him over to King Aelle. Aelle killed him but Ecbert was the one that captured him.” He was turning a wooden game piece over and over in his hand – something that Athelstan’s son had given him during Ivar’s time as a ‘guest’ in Wessex while Ragnar had been kept in a cage – over and over went the piece. Over and over.

“Snakes,” Sigurd said, his own eye-snake facing Lagertha’s stunned expression. “Torture and a pit of snakes.”

“By the gods, Ragnar,” Lagertha muttered, her voice finally betraying her. Ragnar’s heart ached for her, as hers did for him.

Ivar’s fist slammed onto the table. Ubbe was digging a loose arrow head into the table, prying at the wood. Aslaug watched her sons like she knew that there was a storm brewing in that room. Ragnar could feel it too; the rage, the vengefulness. Just like he had so hoped.

“He must be avenged!” Ivar shouted.

“He will be avenged,” Sigurd said, simply, as though there was no doubt about that.

“We will avenge him,” Ubbe promised, in the exact way that Ragnar would have said it.

“Not yet,” Lagertha interrupted. She was a leader, a seasoned warrior, drawing the new blood to attention, to reason. “Ragnar will be avenged, there is no doubt about that. But you need to bide your time. You need a strategy, an army, boats. I will help you to build it.”

“If the boys have seen Odin,” Aslaug reminded her, “Hvitserk and Bjorn will have too. They will be on their way home as we speak.”

“You must wait for Bjorn,” Lagertha agreed. “You will need him. And Floki and Harald and Halfdan, and your brother Hvitserk. Their men will join your cause.” She glanced at Ivar’s tight jaw, the fire in his eyes, “You will avenge your father,” she vowed to him, her own wish for revenge clear. “If you are patient. Build an army greater than the Kings of England have ever seen.” She leaned forwards into the table, making steady eye contact with Ivar, then Ubbe, then Sigurd. “Make them all know the wrath of the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok.”

***

Ragnar was watching the day that Bjorn and Hvitserk returned. They brought with them Floki, Helga, Harald and Halfdan and all their men bar Rollo, who had returned to his wife and children and kingdom. 

He watched Hvitserk leap off the boat before it has even properly aligned to the docks and straight into Ubbe’s waiting arms. Ubbe held his brother’s head into his shoulder, Hvitserk’s arms tight like a vice around Ubbe’s waist.

“Father is dead,” Hvisterk said, voice muffled with his mouth pressed into his brother’s shoulder as it was.

“Yes,” Ubbe said, briefly petting Hvitserk’s hair. “We know.”

The moment Ubbe let him go, Hvitserk was falling to his knees in front of Ivar to drag him into a hug with an arm around his shoulders.

“What happened, Ivar? You went with father didn’t you?” Hvitserk asked, “I felt such fear from you and pain and sadness…”

“Now is not the time,” Ivar said, “You both are late. We have planning to do. We are going to England.”

“To avenge father,” Hvitserk agreed, assessing Ivar’s face, “I’m glad you are alive, Ivar.”

Ivar reached up to pat at Hvitserk’s cheek. “You too, brother,” Ivar said, in that lilting, teasing way of his that he used when he didn’t want to reveal too much genuine feeling.

Hvitserk stood, hugged his mother, who pressed a kiss to Hvitserk’s cheek and told him that it was good to have him home. And then Hvitserk hugged Sigurd.

“How did it happen, Sigurd, to father?” Hvitserk asked.

Bjorn, who had hugged and greeted Lagertha, Torvi and his children stood behind Hvitserk, listening over his shoulder.

“Snakes,” Sigurd said. “Torture and serpents.” Sigurd looked from Hvitserk to Bjorn. “We are already collecting and making weapons, gathering men.”

“Good,” Bjorn said, reaching around Hvitserk to grasp Sigurd’s shoulder. “We have plans to make.”

Bjorn greeted Ubbe with a hug and Ivar by cupping his face.

“You were last of us to see father alive,” Bjorn stated.

Ivar nodded. Bjorn looked at him a moment longer before patting his face and moving aside for Floki, who bounded forward to wrap Ivar in his gangly arms.

Ragnar’s sons were all together again. And the planning began.

***

Ragnar was watching, the day that Floki revealed to Ivar the chariot that could carry him into battle with his brothers.

Floki carried Ivar on his back, his lined eyes pleased with themselves, as he walked them through the forest, revealing the chariot through the mist.

“What is it?” Ivar asked, mouth open in delighted wonder.

“It’s your legs, Ivar,” Floki said. “It’s your wings.”

Floki put Ivar down on the forest floor and urged him towards the chariot for a closer look. Ivar crawled towards it and inspected it, a hand on one of the wooden beams that would connect the horses. Ivar turned back to look at Floki, a wide smile on his face. A smile that Ragnar already missed seeing in person.

“Is it really for me?” Ivar asked, delighted, completely and utterly happy.  He looked so happy that Ragnar could not help but glance quickly at the other boys, dotted around Kattegat, as they all stopped what they were doing, surprised to feel such pure happiness coming from Ivar.

Ragnar looked back in time to see Floki nod, and Ivar and Floki both began to laugh; their high-pitched giggles that sounded so eerily similar. Ragnar missed hearing that in person, too.

Ragnar also watched the day that Aslaug approached Lagertha with a proposal.

“The boys will be leaving for England soon,” Aslaug said. “Do you intend to join them?”

Lagertha regarded her steadily. “Why? Are you so keen for me to be gone?”

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Aslaug admitted, moving to take a seat beside her. “All of our boys will be gone to England; all of them have that duty. But it also means that Kattegat will be more vulnerable. They are taking many of the best men and shield maidens for the army. The boys are the ones capable of battle and protection, here. I am not a warrior. I am more politically inclined,” she was watching Lagertha as closely as Lagertha was studying her. “Kattegat no longer has a king and queen, but who dictates a man is needed? What I am proposing, if you were interested in doing so, is ruling Kattegat alongside me. I know that we have not always seen eye-to-eye, but I think we can appreciate each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and after all this time, I think that we can trust each other?” She watched Lagertha give her a nod of agreement. “We both would deal with major decisions, but I could handle day-to-day politics, and you could lead Kattegat’s defence with your shield maidens. What I propose, is that we rule and defend Kattegat together. Two queens.”

“With two of us working together we could expand to outer towns,” Lagertha suggested, slowly, as she quickly began to appreciate the idea. “Create an empire here while our sons are in England.”

Aslaug nodded with her wide, intelligent smile. “We certainly could.”

“The queens of Kattegat,” Lagertha tested it out. She considered it, and then grinned that charming grin of hers. She nodded. “Yes. I could agree to that.”

Ragnar had no doubt that - like his sons would be in their quest of revenge in England - his two wives would also be an unstoppable force.

***

Ragnar witnessed Ubbe’s marriage to the slave girl Margrethe before the boys left with their army; a high note of celebration to see the army off in high spirits. All four of his sons had been intimate with Margrethe, but as the eldest Ubbe was the one with most authority. Ragnar had a feeling that Ubbe married her more to put her in high standing - to save her from her role as a slave - than it was about love. He even allowed Hvitserk to share her with him on their wedding night. Ragnar decidedly did _not_ watch that part. But he did witness the ceremony and the celebrations and the sight of his old friends and sons enjoying being carefree before they left with their army. 

Because soon enough Ragnar’s sons left their mothers behind to rule Kattegat in equal standing, with Torvi and Helga and Margrethe to assist them. And Ragnar’s sons made it to England with their great heathen army.

And Ragnar watched them exact the revenge that Ragnar had promised the Kings in England.

They defeated Northumbria first. The Great Heathen Army; a truly unstoppable force. Bjorn had been decided unanimously as the leader, with his four younger brothers as his next-in-command. Ragnar had been pleased to see great men like Floki, Harald and Halfdan fighting for the cause alongside them. Aelle’s smaller army was easily overrun, and the Vikings took an easy victory. Ragnar thoroughly enjoyed watching Bjorn exact their revenge of King Aelle. Ragnar watched with satisfaction, the Blood Eagle raised high. Bjorn did the honours, but his other four sons were there too, watching their father avenged.

But their revenge was not yet finished. Next, they turned to Wessex. Aethelwulf was leading a much bigger Wessex army, but Ragnar did not doubt that the Vikings would triumph, because while Bjorn led, they also had Ivar and his brilliant mind. It was Ivar, in that instance, as Ragnar had predicted, that truly helped them succeed. It was his strategy, his alternative way of thinking, different from the usual Viking battle-tactics, that tricked the Anglo-Saxon army and Aethelwulf so badly. Ivar’s cunning gave the Vikings the upper hand. And then came the fighting.

Each of Ragnar’s sons proved themselves as hero warriors in those battles. Bjorn was a great warrior already well tried and tested, and he was formidable as he had ever been, ruthless, well-practiced, but relatively composed as the leader, despite the fire in his eyes. Ragnar was proud of him, just as Ragnar was proud of his four younger sons, who so truly proved themselves warriors to be reckoned with. All five of Ragnar’s sons had a battle-craze about them, apparently, a high adrenaline rush that made them near fearless and savage; Ragnar heard the whispers of them being ‘beserkers’.

The four youngest also had their mental connection, which heightened those adrenaline rushes and battle crazes. It made them seamless when fighting together, and they even utilised each other’s skills at points. The only concern Ragnar had had for them was that if one of them - the gods forbid - was injured, that the others would feel it and become fatally distracted. Luckily, it was not something that they ended up having to deal with in the big battles, as thankfully none of them were badly wounded. Though they _had_ begun a habit of checking each other over as soon as they had reunited. They would grab each other’s faces or shoulders and do a quick visual check of injuries, because they were unused to all of them having minor injuries at the same time, and, Ragnar assumed, they found it easier to check visually because they could not feel whose injuries were whose, or even which were their own.

Ragnar was familiar with Bjorn as a warrior, but still kept an eye on his progress as he watched his four youngest fight the battle against the Wessex army. Hvitserk was quick and efficient in slaughter, with his sword and shield, making short work of his opponents with mere slashes of his sword, and gaining a high body count. Sigurd showed strength and expertise with an axe in each hand; confident enough in his own skill to not to even bother with a shield for defence. Ubbe was intimidatingly fearless, shield and axe, arms and eyes open wide as he goaded an opponent before easily cutting him down, a master of his own battle-cry. And then there was Ivar, the tactician that had effectively planned the clash of armies, drawing up in his chariot and a whole new wave of men, to get Aethelwulf shouting to his men for a retreat. Ivar hadn’t needed to lift his sword, but it did not matter, he had used the weapon of his mind.

Ragnar could not help but grin as the battle ended, and he watched the Viking army’s shouts of victory; Sigurd swinging the axes that he had wielded as easily as they were a part of his own arms, saw Hvitserk and Ubbe walking side-by-side, grinning and shouting, Ubbe holding an opponents’ decapitated head. He saw Ubbe and Hvitserk throwing themselves together for an adrenaline-fuelled hug, before they leapt upon Sigurd and the three of them went striding towards Ivar’s chariot. Bjorn did not shout and celebrate like the other men, and Ragnar knew for why, and he watched as Bjorn followed his three brothers to Ivar at a slower pace. The four sons of Ragnar and Aslaug shouted at each other in celebration.

“We won!” Ivar yelled in elation as Ubbe and Hvitserk leapt up onto the chariot to hug him, Sigurd just below them. They were laughing. Ragnar could not help but smile with them.

They were four boys enjoying the adrenaline of only their second large-scale battle. But their battle-hardened eldest brother knew that they could not celebrate just yet.

“What are you so happy about?” Bjorn asked, the serious leader, as he reached them.

The boys stopped celebrating and looked at him. Ubbe still had his hand in Ivar’s hair and he kissed his youngest brother’s head as Bjorn looked back at the battlefield and stated, “It’s not over yet.”

Ubbe jumped down off the back of the chariot, Hvitserk playfully tapped Ivar’s cheek and followed as Ivar tried to retaliate, Sigurd laughing up at them.  They did sober up though, because Bjorn was right. It wasn’t over yet, and Ragnar was looking forward to the rest.

***

Because King Ecbert had always been an intelligent mind, one that on many occasions had matched or outwitted Ragnar’s, he had made Bishop Edmund crown Aethelwulf as the new king of Wessex and Mercia and evacuated his city, so that when Ragnar’s sons arrived with their great army, there was only Ecbert and Edmund to be found. Ragnar knew Ecbert’s game; he wanted to stall Ragnar’s boys, and trick them, by letting them believe that he was still the lawful king by making a deal with Bjorn; offering them land that was no longer Ecbert’s by law, in exchange for being able to choose the manner of his own death. It was a smart move of Ecbert. He had heard of Aelle’s blood eagle, and he wanted to ensure that the inevitable would not also be bestowed upon him.

His terms were agreed.

Ecbert chose the manner of his own death. He committed suicide in that great fancy bath of his.

He had tricked the boys into giving him an easy death, but it did not matter in the least to Ragnar. King Ecbert was dead. King Aelle was dead. Both had been overpowered or beaten by the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. Bishop Edmund was dead; Hvitserk had seen to that. And despite Aethelwulf being king, he had been defeated and humiliated in battle already against Ragnar’s sons and Ragnar had no doubt that his sons would triumph again. As to the matter of Ecbert promising lands he no longer had the right to give; that did not matter either. Ragnar’s sons would just take that land.

Ecbert was dead. Ragnar avenged.

And finally, Bjorn decided that they could celebrate.

The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok and their Great Heathen Army celebrated for days.

But with their task done, their revenge gained, there then was the question of what came next.

The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok then fell into debate.

Bjorn wanted to go back to the Mediterranean.

“I never liked England,” Bjorn said. “I like it even less now I know that father died here. I do not wish to stay. I plan to return to Kattegat before returning to exploring the Mediterranean, as our trip there was not completed. Hvitserk,” he said, “You are welcome to join me once more. Any of you, if you wish to join me, do.”

But Ivar had other ideas and implored his brothers to stay with him in England. “Aethelwulf is not yet defeated. I do not believe our work here is quite done. And there are many more places we could take here. I have heard of the great city of York…”

Ubbe and Sigurd agreed to stay with Ivar, to conquer more of the kingdoms and cities. They had never been ones excited for exploring by sea; happy to battle and raid on land.

Hvitserk, however, was clearly torn.

“What is it?” Ubbe asked later, sitting down beside him as Hvitserk fidgeted, turning his hands over and over.

“I do not know where to go next,” Hvitserk admitted. “I feel I left our exploration in the Mediterranean half-finished after we were given the news of father…” he fell quiet. “But the three of you will be here, and I do not know if I want to leave you again so soon. The gods have not given me a sign…”

Ever since Hvitserk and Bjorn had seen Odin and his ravens on that cliff, informing them of Ragnar’s death Hvitserk had become intrigued by the gods and their signs. A decision had been made for him by that sign on the cliff; they had returned to Kattegat to form the Great Heathen Army rather than continue their exploration of the Mediterranean. He had accepted a couple more signs during the invasion and battles in England, and had based decisions upon them. The only issue was, now he was unsure whether to wait for another or not.

Regardless, Ragnar knew what line of argument Ubbe would take before he even opened his mouth.

“Maybe the gods are just waiting for your decision,” Ubbe said, patient and understanding as he had been whenever Hvitserk had confided in him about the gods and their signs. But Ubbe’s light blue eyes were searching, too, imploring as much as Ivar had been earlier when he had urged his brothers to stay and help him conquer more of England. And Ubbe could be both selfless and selfish when it came to his brothers. “Bjorn is your brother. But so are we. Stay. You are my little brother,” he said, as though that were argument enough. That Ubbe’s presence within the decision was argument enough. “Stay.”

It did not take long for Hvitserk to decide, after that.

“I am sorry,” Hvitserk apologised to Bjorn, “I would love to explore more with you, but my brothers need me here. There is more for me to do here.”

Bjorn did not look surprised. He reached out to grasp his little brother’s shoulder. “I thought as much. You were always going to pick the fight over the exploration, Hvitserk. And you were always going to pick the three of them over me, there is no contest, I see that.”

“I will miss you, though,” Hvitserk said. “We all will. You were our leader.”

“And now you all must be the leaders,” Bjorn said, ducking his head to meet Hvitserk’s eyes to make sure that he knew that he was serious when he said, “Keep Ivar in check. Don’t let him try to take overall charge. Nothing sane can come of that. I have told Ubbe the same.”

Hvitserk scoffed. “We are equals in this, Bjorn, we have already decided. Ivar wouldn’t even try.”

“He would dare to, though, if he thought he had to,” Bjorn said. “Just, keep him in check.”

Bjorn was not going alone. Harald and Halfdan were to return to Kattegat as well. And Floki decided to go too.

“Floki, where do you think are you going?” Ivar demanded, dragging himself to the clearing in which Floki was fixing up one of the boats ready to sail back to Kattegat. “Bjorn tells me you are going back with him.”

“Yes. And once I am there I am going to build another boat, a smaller boat. A boat just for me and Helga.”

“And where are you going to sail that boat to?”

Floki paused in correcting and retying the ropes. “To where the gods decide.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Ivar said. “I still need you in the fight against the Christians. My brothers can be too soft and you know that, Floki. I can’t be the only voice willing to make the brutal decisions. They outnumber me three to one. Hvitserk will side with Ubbe, and Sigurd will go against me just to spite me, sometimes. It means that they won’t agree with me at least half the time.” There was a pause. “Please?” A desperate plea. Ragnar knew it had less to do with any doubts Ivar truly had of his brothers, but more of his unwillingness to have Floki leave him. Because just as Ragnar knew, Ivar had realised that Floki intended to leave for the last time, and not return. And Ivar did not want to say goodbye to yet another father. “I love them, they are my brothers. But please, you cannot leave. I may be connected to them, but nobody knows me quite like you do. No-one understands me like you do. That is why you cannot leave,” Ivar’s voice broke with emotion. “When you are not there, sometimes I feel lonely.”

Floki leapt from the boat and moved to kneel before Ivar. He stroked a hand back through his hair comfortingly and pressed their foreheads together.

“I have to leave, Ivar,” Floki said softly, trying to explain. “Helga and I spoke of this before we left the Mediterranean. It was always our plan, once we got back to Kattegat, but with Ragnar’s death and coming here instead we had to put it on hold. But only on hold. It is still the plan. With our daughter gone, and Ragnar gone, there is nothing left for us, here. This world no longer interests us. That is why we are going to get in our small boat and give ourselves to the tide and the winds, and the will of the gods. And go where they take us.”

Floki and Helga had always been free spirits. After the loss of their daughter and the trials they had suffered, they deserved an adventure in the gods’ hands, away from the memories that Kattegat brought.

Ivar was crying, his voice gut-wrenchingly sad as he said “But my heart is breaking.”

Floki immediately pulled him into his chest. “It will repair,” he promised. “Ivar the Boneless, scourge of the world. You don’t need me.” He hugged Ivar for a long time, his eyes closed, and Ragnar could see how very much his old friend loved his youngest son; saw Ivar as the closest thing to the son he had never had himself. “You don’t need me,” Floki said again eventually, drawing away enough to look into Ivar’s tearful gaze. “But you do need your brothers. If they go against you, it will be for good reason, but you must also make them see when they are being blind to what you can see, because you are tough and uniquely minded.” He gently poked the side of Ivar’s head. “And you have the _means_ to make them see. You will not be alone. You will never be alone, not really. Not so long as those three walk the world with you.”

And true to Floki’s words and despite Ivar’s half-hearted protests about his brothers’ not quite understanding him as Floki could, his brothers had sensed Ivar’s upset and heartbreak at Floki leaving.

Ragnar knew that Floki had not told the other brothers of his plans, and had intended to merely pack up into one of the boats with Bjorn and leave.

That did not happen. The brothers felt Ivar’s upset and so came to find him.

“So it is true then, you are planning to leave right now,” Ubbe said, walking to where Floki was loading one of the boats ready to head back to Kattegat with Bjorn. “To leave us without telling us or saying goodbye, huh?”

Floki glanced at him. “I wanted to spare you the trouble of trying to stop me.”

“But we will anyway,” Sigurd said.

Floki stopped, stood and turned to them, eyeing them all; all four of them in a row; Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd all standing, and Ivar, sitting on the grass bank looking betrayed. “And you can’t,” Floki said simply. But he did jump out of the boat and strode towards them. “So let us just say farewell properly instead.”

“Where are you going?” Hvitserk asked him. “On to the Mediterranean with Bjorn?”

Floki gave him a small smile, because he and Hvitserk shared experiences in the Mediterranean that the other three did not. “Back to Helga,” Floki said. “And then we are going our own way. Wherever the gods will take us. But as long as I live and breathe, you, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok will always be close to my heart.”

He stepped up to Ubbe, and brought Ubbe’s head forward to touch his own, forehead to forehead, one of his hands on the back of Ubbe’s neck, the other resting at the side of his face.

“Farewell Floki,” Ubbe said, his blue eyes staring straight into Floki’s own with that unwaveringly genuine and intense stare of his. “You are the greatest boat builder of all time.”

“And you…” Floki started, pulling back, inspecting Ubbe’s face at close range for the last time. “You look like your father.”

Ubbe rolled his eyes as Floki let out one of his giggles, grinning at Ubbe and patting his face before moving on to Hvitserk.

Hvitserk pulled him into a hug. “Farewell Floki,” Hvitserk said, murmuring into Floki’s ear, “Beloved by the gods.”

“Watch out for their signs, Hvitserk,” Floki replied, well aware from their trip to the Mediterranean that Hvitserk was often indecisive and now often relied upon the gods to give him signs and answers. “They are there.”

Floki hugged Sigurd next. “Goodbye Floki,” Sigurd said. “I wish you safe travels, wherever you go to next.”

Floki pulled back and tapped his finger under his eye, indicating his sight, and Sigurd’s. “Wherever we all go next,” he agreed.

Floki then stood and stared down at Ivar, who was sitting on the grass bank, arms crossed and shaking his head. Ivar’s tears were done. He had already said his own emotional farewell. And Ivar wasn’t one for showing weakness in public.

“You knock-kneed fool,” Ivar threw at him. “Stay. We need you just as much as our father needed you, but instead,” he waved his hand around idly, unimpressed, “You choose to run away, you coward.”

Floki simply stood and stared at him, faux-incredulous. “Stand up and say that to my face,” Floki challenged.

Slowly, Ivar and Floki smiled at each other in amused acknowledgment. They had said their goodbyes, and they were recognised in the way that they looked and smiled fondly, sadly, at each other for a moment.

But then Floki broke the moment, turning and bouncing back down the bank towards his chosen boat; the boat that was about to leave first and lead the Viking party back downriver and out to the open sea.

“You four do not need me as much as you think you do,” he called back over his shoulder. “Helga needs me more.” He swung himself aboard the boat with ease, grasping the mast and leaning off of it. “And that is why I must go. Helga and I will go where the sea takes us. You,” he pointed at the four of them. “You have to go where destiny takes you too.”

And so Floki had said goodbye to the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok for the last time. They watched him leave on his boat, for the last time.

“Is it true?” Ubbe asked, turning to Hvitserk, leaning on his shoulder. “That he has completely committed himself to the sea?”

Hvitserk opened his mouth to answer but Ivar beat him to it, Ubbe and Hvitserk both turning to look at him.

“Do not worry.  I have given him the means to guide himself. We do not want him to be lost.” Ivar sounded sad, watching the boat start to move away.

His sadness was mixed with their own. It was Sigurd who reached out and touched Ivar’s shoulder in acknowledging comfort. And the brothers vowed to try and cheer him up, later, once all the Viking party had departed and they had a moment of privacy; Ivar did not like to show too much vulnerability in public. None of them did. And so they joined in with the chants of “All hail Floki!” that came from the army that had decided to remain with Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd and Ivar, and who were all lined up along the banks to watch the boats depart.

The rest of the boats departed soon afterwards, and they said their farewells to Harald and Halfdan and the rest of those who were joining Bjorn and Floki back to Kattegat and from there wherever they wished.

Bjorn hugged each of his little brothers tightly.

“You have made me proud, little brothers,” Bjorn said. And Ragnar wished he had also told his sons he was proud of them, more than he had. “You have proven yourselves great warriors and leaders. Continue to be so. I will miss you.”

Bjorn was clearly fond of each and every one of them, and they in turn clearly loved, looked up to and respected him. And that made Ragnar proud too.

“We will miss you, big brother,” Ubbe said to Bjorn on behalf of them all. “Travel safely. Discover much. And conquer it all.”

***

After much determination and persuasion from Ivar, the Great Heathen Army set its sights on York. Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar and their army conquered it with little effort.

They celebrated by getting new tattoos; each brother having to handle their own discomfort under the marks being tapped tapped sharply into their skin as well as feeling each other’s.

Ivar was braced on his arms as his back was tattooed, not bothered by the pain, and his brothers were sitting around him, feeling the itch in their skin.

“Ivar,” Ubbe announced, “Now that we have won York, we have a surprise for you.”

Ivar looked up at them, eyebrow raised. “I do not like surprises.”

“We know,” Sigurd said, with a roll of his eyes, “But this isn’t from us. It’s from Floki.”

Ivar’s eyes brightened instantly. He waved the man tattooing him away and reached out a grabbing hand towards his brothers. “Give it to me.”

“Patience, Ivar,” Ubbe clucked his tongue, but went to retrieve Floki’s gift to Ivar.

“He made you a gift before he left – before we knew he was leaving, though it makes more sense why he did it now – and he told us to wait for the right time,” Hvitserk said, from where he was perched on a large barrel, swinging his legs, “And now that we are based in a city and not a camp,” he gestured around them at their conquered city. “We decided that now was the best time.”

It was at that moment that Ubbe produced the new leg braces that Floki had made him, and Ivar’s whole face lit up.

The brothers took themselves away from the rest of their men to give Ivar the privacy of trying them out. Once Ivar was sitting on the floor and his legs were inside of the brace frame, Ubbe helped him to tighten them.

“Do you want a hand up?” Ubbe asked from where he was crouched next to Ivar’s legs.

Ivar shook his head adamantly, fierce determination in his face.

Ragnar watched Ubbe stand up, and he, Hvitserk and Sigurd moved far enough back from their little brother to not irritate him with their hovering, but near enough to be ready to catch him if it was needed.

Ivar had a lot of strength in his arms - used to holding his weight as they were - so he pushed himself up with enough force to get himself standing, but with so much momentum that he nearly toppled. Ubbe swept forwards to offer him a shoulder to lean on to steady himself. It was help that Ivar did, for once, decide to take.

There was a wince from all the brothers as they all felt a new ache of pressure in their legs, but after a moment of standing, Ivar was grinning, wide, and his happiness presumably drowned out any discomfort that he had been projecting, as the rest of them started smiling back a him.

“Floki’s done it again,” Sigurd said.

Ivar sent a rare grin at him, eyes sparkling.

“Are you good?” Ubbe asked him, waiting for Ivar’s nod before stepping away and letting Ivar stand on his own.

Ivar took a wary step, but held strong. And then took another. It was slow and had to be painful, but Ivar was beaming throughout. He stopped and looked at his brothers, waiting or daring them to say something; Ragnar could not tell which.

“You are always taller than I expect,” Hvitserk commented, his tongue poking out from between his teeth playfully. “I guess I am used to you at ankle-height.”

Ivar shoved him over but overbalanced as well and fell on top of him, and the four brothers all descended into mad peals of laughter.

The brothers did not see the Northmen outside of the room stare at the door, hearing the laughs from within, and clearly thinking to themselves that the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok and Aslaug were a little bit crazy, but Ragnar did. And it made him grin.

There was a problem though, that Ragnar knew would likely become an issue sooner rather than later; the Northmen were too busy celebrating winning the city to defend it properly, probably not believing the Saxons would dare a counterattack. Ragnar was exasperated, because _of course_ the Saxons were going to try and counterattack. Aethelwulf’s pride had been wounded and Ragnar did not like the look of that Bishop Heahmund one tiny bit. Still, if his boys were to be great leaders then they needed to learn that a prize had to be guarded as well as enjoyed. And it wasn’t like Ragnar could send them a sign anyway.

So, when the inevitable happened, he just had to watch as the Saxons attacked York in an attempt to take it back.

He should have given his sons more credit, however, as by the time the city was infiltrated; his sons had put a plan in place. The Saxon soldiers were attacked from above, herded into spikes and dead-ends. But the Saxon numbers grew too many and first Hvitserk, then Ubbe and then Sigurd were drawn down from their alcove and into the battle.

Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd had convinced Ivar to stay high up in their alcove and out of sight before they had left to fight. It had not been easy to convince him:

“How am I supposed to lead the Heathen army if I am not down there with you?” Ivar had snarled, wounded when he was told to stay behind.

“You can keep watch from above and send orders. This city is too narrow in many places for your chariot,” Ubbe had said. “We need your eyes from above, and your aim with an arrow.”

“Doing that wouldn’t make you any less of a leader than the rest of us, Ivar,” Sigurd had said.

“You all say that the four of us are equal leaders of the great army because we are all the sons of Ragnar…”

“We are!”

“But you have to understand that it is harder for me to share and to stake my claim. I truly want to be your equal but in order for me to do so I have to do better than you. I have to make you forget that I’m a cripple.”

“Listen, Ivar, we know what you are, and we accept what you are,” Ubbe had said. Words that he had said many times before.

Ivar had not looked appeased.

“It makes no difference to us,” Sigurd had said, “You are just our brother.”

“Don’t try to make us feel sorry for you,” Hvitserk had cut in with a light-hearted smirk and a shrug, as he had prepared himself to go and join the battle. “Because, my brother, we never will.”

Ivar’s face had finally broken into an amused grin, because for some reason he tolerated Hvitserk’s blunt teasing more than most’s, most of the time. And, on this occasion, he had finally backed down.

Hvitserk had gone to fight first, but then Ubbe had left too, and then Sigurd, and Ivar was left to watch from above.

This battle was a lot more bloody and furious than the one in which they had taken York, and Ivar was growing impatient.

It was around the time that Sigurd was nicked on the arm by a sword that Ivar lurched from his seat and grabbed the helmet he had been glancing at throughout the whole of the battle so far.

Ragnar watched his youngest son ride his chariot straight into the city centre. Straight into the battle. And he did well for a while, knocking soldiers flying this way and that with a swing of his axe. But it was raining and muddy and he didn’t see the soldier stepping out towards the chariot until the big piece of wood smacked him straight off the chariot. Ivar went flying backwards onto the muddy ground and smacked the back of his head. Hard. The breath knocked out of him.

Ragnar watched red seep into the white of one of Ivar’s bright blue eyes as blood vessels burst on the impact. In various locations around the city, Ragnar watched Ubbe, Hvitserk and Sigurd’s heads all jerk forwards, like they had also felt the painful skull-ringing impact, and as Sigurd held his head, Hvitserk blinked woozily and Ubbe’s eyes opened wide, Ragnar watched as the blood vessels simultaneously burst in each of their left eyes. Ragnar could not help but stare. Because he had never seen anything quite like _that_ before.

The three older brothers knew that Ivar was in trouble, could feel it, and so started to fight their way and lead their men towards the square where they all instinctively knew Ivar had been knocked down.

But they were a long way off, and Ivar had other problems. The man that had knocked him off his chariot approached him with his big piece of wood and Ivar could not lie there any longer, no matter how much his head had to be shrieking in pain. Ivar was always in pain. He could handle it. Ragnar knew Ivar could handle it. He had seen Ivar fight.

Ivar swung onto his side and with his two hand axes, cut the man down by the legs. Once the man was down, one of those axes went straight into his chest and then repeatedly into his face, as Ivar yelled his pain out and damaged that man’s skull far, far worse than Ivar’s had been.

Face and teeth now totally blood-splattered, Ivar dragged himself through the mud back towards where his chariot had stopped, the horse having broken off and vanished. But he had barely made it before a large group of the Saxon army charged into the street.

Ragnar almost felt his dead heart stop.

Ivar had his teeth gritted and face fixed in determination. He dragged himself the last few inches, eyes flicking towards the approaching soldiers. He sat down with his back to his chariot, facing the oncoming men, and used his arms to drag his legs around in front of him.

The soldiers reached him. Ragnar’s breath was bated. Ivar was panting. His blue eyes were wide, mind clearly working overtime. Ragnar knew that Ivar would be scared. But Ivar had hardened during his time at war, and Ragnar had seen more frequently Ivar channel that fear into wild madness.

The men had slowed to a stop; presumably at the sight of this wild, strange young man sitting alone in the courtyard with a blood-stained face and blood-stained teeth and a blood-filled eye. The scarlet making his eyes look impossibly blue. 

Ivar’s face split into a blood-stained smile and he let out a hysterical, crazed laugh, and then he let out a couple of battle cries. He had seen how the men were staring at him. How swords wavered. How arrows were knocked but were not firing. How they were shifting warily.

They must think he is some kind of hellish demon, Ragnar thought. They don’t even know how right they are. Yet.

An arrow was loosed and hit the chariot near Ivar’s head. Ivar turned to look at it, before quick as a flash locating the culprit and flinging one of his hand axes with perfect precision into the man with a thud. No-one shot at him again. Ivar didn’t give them time to consider it.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Ivar yelled at them in his mother-tongue; a language those men did not understand. He hit himself in the chest. He swapped his remaining handaxe to his other hand, pointing it at them threateningly. “You can’t kill me!”

Panic had bled into a mad fight for survival. Ivar knew he was hopelessly surrounded. But he knew that if he scared them enough, put on a show, it would stall them. Either he would live for a little longer and die a like a fearless warrior hero, or it would give him time to both have back-up arrive and scare his enemies shitless; make them easier targets.

 “Don’t you know who I am?” he screamed. “I am Ivar the Boneless! I am Ivar the Boneless!”

And by the gods, you could watch those men becoming increasingly terrified of this deranged demon of fury sitting in the mud and blood and rain and screaming at them all with words they didn’t understand.

“You can’t kill me!” he yelled again. He spat a gob of spittle and blood towards them. He stretched out his arms. “I am Ivar the Boneless!”

Thankfully, that was when Ubbe arrived from a side street with a band of men. But at the sight of Ivar holding these men as a terrified and captivated audience, shouting in some kind of hysterical craze, Ubbe stopped his viking band and watched, amazed.

As Ivar continued shouting more Vikings rounded another street into the square behind Ivar, led by Hvitserk and Sigurd.

“Wait!” Ubbe shouted at them and they did, staring at their little brother, who was busy scaring and screaming and staring down a whole mass of men.

Ivar opened his arms once more and screamed at them. “You can’t kill me! You can’t kill me!”

Ubbe motioned for his men to stay back as he stepped forward alone out into the square behind Ivar. At Ubbe’s signal, Hvitserk and Sigurd stepped forwards away from their men too, until the three of them stood just behind their little brother and his chariot.

To Ragnar, it was a sight to make him proud. To the band of Saxons practically quaking in their mud-caked boots, it had to be horrifying. The blood-stained demon sitting on the ground and screaming words at them had been joined by three more blood-stained warriors, all with that crazed look in their light eyes, all with smiling snarls. All of them - all four - with the whites of their left eyes blood-red.

Ivar let out one long war cry, one last time, and the spell broke. His brothers shouted too, and the Norsemen all shouted, and charged into the square and into the terrified crowd of Saxons.

A small number of Norsemen surrounded Ivar with their shields to keep him protected and Ragnar watched him watch his brothers fight. More Saxons joined the fray, including Aethelwulf, his son and Heahmund.

Ivar would let out a cackling laugh intermittently, loud enough to keep the nearest Saxons under the spell, to remind them that he was still there. He watched Ubbe cut down a man with a snarl and turn with a whip of his long braid, and Ivar clapped his hands together in murderous glee. He smacked his hand onto the armour on his chest.

“You’re all going to die!” he yelled in promise at the Saxons, and then let out some more of his loud, crazed battle-shouts.

That caught Heahmund’s attention and by the time the bishop and warrior had worked his way towards where Ivar was sitting amongst his shield guards, Ivar was grinning at him challengingly. Daring him. Ivar let out a breath, chuckled, held up his hand-axe. And Heahmund pointed his sword towards him, a threat, a ‘you next’. And Ivar just laughed and clapped his axe against his hands like he was applauding, taunting Heahmund, eager for the challenge. The temporary fear was gone now completely; Ivar was merely enjoying himself.

Ivar opened his arms in a ‘what are you waiting for?’ gesture and Heahmund started to approach. And then an arrow went straight into Ivar’s leg.

Ivar just stared at it. It didn’t really hurt, because he was always hurting. And then, more irritated and angry than anything, he gritted his teeth and with Heahmund still holding eye contact, Ivar snapped the long end off of it and threw it towards where Heahmund stood staring at him like Ivar was some ungodly cretin.

A surge of battling men moved between them and broke the moment, and as Ivar licked his bloodied lips and grinned, Heahmund turned away.

“Fight for your king!” Heahmund shouted. “Fight for your god!” He wanted the men to fight for their god. Maybe they would fight harder now, Ragnar wondered, maybe they believed even more now than they ever had, because that day they had been faced with a devil. Four devils. Straight from that place called Hell.

Aethelwulf’s son got shot with an arrow and it did not take long for the overpowered Saxon army to retreat at Aethelwulf’s orders. Heahmund followed begrudgingly.

The Northmen had kept their hold on York. They had won the battle.

“Ivar!” Ubbe shouted, running towards him and skidding into the mud at Ivar’s side. “Ivar, how are you hurt? You must have hit your head hard. Your eye…”

“Your eye, you mean…” Ivar commented, a little smugly, his chest still heaving with adrenaline at what had just happened.

Ubbe blinked, the lid falling shut over his bloodshot left eye. “What do you mean?”

Ivar nodded his head behind Ubbe and Ubbe looked around to where Hvitserk and Sigurd were heading towards them. Ivar saw Ubbe notice that his brothers also had burst vessels in their left eyes.

“An injury that actually showed up on all of us?” Ubbe asked, bewildered.

Sigurd nodded, holding his sword-injured arm close to himself. “Seems so. It’s unusual, even for us.”

“Unusual for us,” Ivar told them, “Terrifying for them,” his tone was terribly pleased. “They think we are heathens.”

“Well they certainly think _you_  are,” Ubbe turned back to Ivar, watching him intently. “I’ve never seen anything quite like that Ivar. You _scared_ them all to a halt.”

“I am unlike anything they had ever encountered before,” Ivar shrugged.

“We aren’t questioning that,” Sigurd sniped, but then he dropped to his knees in the mud beside Ivar. “We have to sort out your leg,” he said. Sigurd had been limping when he and Hvitserk had been walking over, but not from any physical wound that Sigurd himself had received.

Ivar looked down, surprised, at the snapped-off arrow still protruding from his leg. “I forgot about that,” he admitted.

“With that head knock,” Hvitserk said, and Ragnar had noted that Hvitserk had been cupping the back of his own head the entire time as though hoping to push the pain out. “I’m not surprised you didn’t notice the extra pain. I thought we agreed you were going to stay out of the battle?”

“I was not going to just sit there and watch it all happen,” Ivar protested. “The pain is worth it.”

“It is worth it,” Ubbe agreed, his hand gently grabbing the back of Ivar’s neck, that was slick with rainwater and blood. “You were quite incredible today, Ivar.” He grinned. “The perfect heathen.”

“And the heathens won,” Ivar said, smug despite the pain, as his brothers helped him up, and his arms were wrapped around Sigurd and Hvitserk’s shoulders so they could carry him into the rooms they had taken for their own, so they could seek him – and Sigurd’s arm – medical attention. “We have kept York.”

“Yes Ivar,” Sigurd agreed. “We have kept York.”

***

The only problem was that Ivar still wasn’t interested in _defending_ York.

“We do not want to settle down and plow!” Ivar demanded of Ubbe. “Who wants to be a farmer now, hmm? We have a great army and we should use it! There are many other places that I want to attack and raid! I know the men will feel the same, I know they will come with me! We have taken down Aelle and Ecbert, we have defeated and humiliated Aethelwulf and that strange Bishop. Who can truly stand in our way now?

“And who do you suggest is going to lead the army, Ivar? You?” Ubbe asked.

“If I have to, Ubbe, if you are so damned keen on settling down and putting on an apron. I suppose I will have to. For those who are still brave enough to raid and find adventure, then I will lead them.”

“All I am saying is…” Ubbe said, nostrils flaring at Ivar’s barbs, “That we have York taken, won. We need to defend what is here. We need to start thinking about the lands we have won in Wessex and Northumberland before we start conquering any more.”

“It will take a great man, Ivar,” Hvitserk agreed with Ubbe, from where he was sitting below the dais at a table, carving slices of meat off a bone with his knife and eating them off the blade. “To stake a claim here and defend the land that we have won.”

“Ah, that does not sound like yourself, dear brother. That sounds like someone else entirely,” Ivar’s eyes cut to Ubbe, sharp as glass. “The Hvitserk I know, he loves to raid. He is a real Viking. What you just said, that is not the Viking way. That is not _your_ way. I know the men will follow me into battle, for the love of fame and for the love of Odin, our All Father. If you want to settle, Ubbe, settle. If you want to settle, Sigurd, settle. But what do _you_ want, Hvitserk?”

“I do not know what I want,” Hvitserk said, “The gods have not given me a sign.”

“You do not need a _sign_ here Hvitserk. You need to choose what you _want._ You know you will be happier and of more use continuing the war alongside me than setting up a stupid _farm_. Hvitserk, that isn’t you. You are not a _farmer_ , you are a _fighter_. And would it not be kinder,” Ivar’s eyes sought out Ubbe once more, speaking directly to him now. “To let him choose what he wants, rather than making up his mind for him and letting him only _think_ that he has made his own decision?”

Ubbe said nothing. His jaw ticked.

“Oh Ubbe,” Ivar tutted, “You are far more selfish and devious than people assume you to be.”

“I have my own mind, Ivar,” Hvitserk snapped. “I have chosen to settle.”

Ivar cackled. “Your own mind, Hvitserk? No, you have four minds, and I don’t think you even know which is your own, sometimes. You do not speak for yourself right now; you speak like Bjorn, because you followed him to the Mediterranean. And you speak like Ubbe, because you follow him every other time. I know you love to be the loyal dog, but do not follow at the wrong master’s heels.”

Hvitserk planted the blade of his knife into the wood of the table and leapt to his feet, snarling, lip curled up in one corner.

“See?” Ivar clapped his hands, goading. “I have upset the doggy.” He barked at him mockingly, and Hvitserk charged, vaulting himself onto the dais using one arm, because the other, ironically, was still holding the meat bone. Ubbe blocked his way and held him back, muttering quietly to him until Hvitserk slackened and stopped.

“Go on little doggy, obey the wrong master.”

“Ivar!” Sigurd snapped. “Enough! Stop trying to turn us all against each other for your own ends. We are all the sons of Ragnar. We have to stick together.”

“Frankly, dear Sigurd, I don’t care what you say. The truth is I wouldn’t even piss down your throat even if your lungs were on fire.”

“Pathetic. We all know that that isn’t true, because if I was burning you would feel like you were burning too.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Are people going to even want to follow you, Ivar? They all think you are crazy.”

“Takes one to know one. Four minds, remember?”

“Yes, four minds; the three of us,” he gestured at himself, Ubbe and Hvitserk, “And you; the mind of a child!”

“And all you do is play music, Sigurd.”

“I’m just as much a son of Ragnar as you are. And you know it.”

“I’m not so sure. As far as I remember, Ragnar didn’t play the oud, and he certainly didn’t offer his arse to other men.”

“You make me laugh. Must you act so much like a baby when you already crawl around like one…”

“Shut your mouth!”

“Enough!” Ubbe ordered, his hand still clamped around Hvitserk’s arm, just in case.

“Stay out of this Ubbe.”

“What’s the matter Ivar?” Sigurd provoked. “You can’t take it?”

“Ivar,” Ubbe warned. “Do not listen to him.” Don’t be provoked into something you will regret, was what the warning meant. 

“I am a son of Ragnar and a son of Aslaug,” Sigurd was saying, angered and defensive, “I have sight like she does, and you hate it that even though she loves you best, I am more like her than you will ever be. Because I can see. And I can walk.”

The hand-axe went flying towards Sigurd and embedded in the wooden chair back, right beside his head.

“Sometimes I hate that I cannot kill you!” Ivar screamed at him.

“You could have killed him just _then_ , Ivar! What in the gods names are you playing at?”

The room fell silent. They all stared at each other, with all of their identically bloodshot left eyes.

“Are you still going to be a coward, Ubbe? Hmm? Are you still going to propose peace to the Saxons so that we can claim land to _settle_ and _farm_ on? Rather than just continuing to take what we can easily win, you want to make _friends_ with the people who killed father?”

“I want to see through our father’s wish to settle and farm these lands,” Ubbe said. “To show them that they cannot scare us out and that we will not grow bored. That we are here to stay and that they have to get used to it. It will not be safe for our people who want to come here to settle if we do not make peace. I can’t fulfil father’s dream by only using force. We need to compromise and to do that, we have to make peace.”

“Of course we do,” Ivar said, sarcastically.

“I am the eldest of us, and I have decided to speak to Aethelwulf. Hvitserk is coming with me.”

“Of course he is,” Ivar said, bitter, watching Hvitserk with that mocking gaze once more.

“I don’t know if that is a good idea,” Sigurd said, “To go just the two of you.”

“They won’t speak to us if we turn up heavily guarded.”

“No, but they might kill you.”

“Surprisingly, for once,” Ivar said. “I agree with Sigurd.”

Ubbe was shaking his head. “You would foresee that, Sigurd, if they were going to kill us.”

“Not true,” Sigurd said. “It doesn’t work like that and you know it. But regardless, don’t go.”

“These are rules in place for peace talks.  Aethelwulf will have honour, even in his humiliation. We are going. We have to try.”

“If that is _your_ decision then fine,” Ivar spat. “Leave. Go. But when you inevitably come back with your tails between your legs – no offence, meant this time, Hvitserk…” Ivar dodged the bone that was thrown at his head. “I get to say that I told you so.”

“Sorry about the axe, Sigurd,” Ivar finally forced himself to apologise, tone petulant, as Ubbe and Hvitserk left the hall; Hvitserk making a show of walking at Ubbe’s side, rather than a step behind at his heels like he sometimes might.

Sigurd narrowed his eyes at Ivar, but then shrugged. They had had worse fights and said crueller words than that many times. “Luckily you have good aim.”

Ivar snorted. “Maybe it was a poor miss.”

Sigurd levelled him with a look. “When do you ever miss?”

“Good point.” And just like that, just like always, the argument ended as soon as it had started; all the insults thrown in the heat of the moment fading away to nothing.

They sat in silence for a little bit longer.

“I think I will get to say ‘I told you so’,” Ivar said. He was picking at the wood of the arm of his chair, not meeting Sigurd’s eye, because despite all his taunts and cruel words towards Ubbe and Hvitserk, Sigurd knew that Ivar was hoping that their brothers weren’t making a terrible mistake.

“So do I,” Sigurd agreed, concerned.

***

Ragnar watched with growing wariness as his second and third sons walked into the nest of vipers, those same vipers that would have thrown Ragnar in the pit of vipers with the same enthusiasm that Aelle had.

Ragnar had done such a feat before; walked alone into an enemy camp demanding terms, and Ubbe was enough like him to maybe be able to pull this off. But while Aethelwulf, Aethelred and Alfred wouldn’t be so much of a problem, there was something about Heahmund that made Ragnar’s hackles rise. He was the one that was going to be a danger to Ragnar’s sons.

It was growing dark when they reached the camp and were shown into the grand tent with its long wooden table, where Alfred and Bishop Heahmund sat on either side of the standing King Aethelwulf.

Ubbe stared Aethelwulf down with his wide-eyed gaze, head cocked, challenging him to dare break the rules on a promised peaceful exchange. Hvitserk eyed the sword lying across the table in front of Alfred, before Heahmund suddenly moving forwards in his seat, with malevolent intent had Hvitserk’s attention flying and his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Aethulwulf halted Heahmund with a hand hovering in front of his chest, as Heahmund stared Hvitserk down with pure hatred.

“You are the victors,” Aethelwulf said, in his own tongue. “Why do you come to see us?”

“We want to make peace,” Ubbe replied, because he knew enough of their language to communicate; thanks to Athelstan and other means of experience. Ivar knew the language too. Hvitserk and Sigurd however, did not, and Ragnar knew that while Hvitserk knew the gist of what was being said, he did not actually understand it. But Hvitserk wasn’t there to demand terms and negotiate; that was Ubbe’s task. Hvitserk’s role was as an extra sword and he was more than happy to fill that role. “We don’t want to fight anymore.” Ragnar watched Aethelwulf watching Ubbe closely; no doubt seeing Ragnar in Ubbe’s speech pattern, his movement, his face, his eyes. Ragnar knew that it would also not have escaped any of their notice, the matching bloodshot eyes, and that was dangerous. “We want to claim our land.”

Heahmund turned his head to spit on the floor, showing quite plainly his opinion. He looked vexed when Ubbe only spared him a glance and hummed a laugh at his behaviour before turning back to Aethelwulf.

The negotiaions carried on for only a little longer, before Ragnar’s sons were requested to wait in a nearby tent while Aethelwulf, Alfred and Heahmund discussed the proposed peace, and would give their answer in the morning.

“What do you think?” Hvitserk asked Ubbe as they left the tent. “What did they say?”

“They said they would give us their decision first thing in the morning,” he glanced at Hvitserk, who was frowning beside him. “Do not worry.” When Hvitserk did not reply, Ubbe stopped. “Hvitserk,” he said, and Hvitserk stopped too and turned to look back at him. “This is the right thing to do,” Ubbe said, so certainly, that Ragnar did not doubt that Hvitserk believed him.

Ragnar, however, could see what was going on in the tent that his sons had just departed.

“They want to make peace?” Aethelwulf laughed incredulously and bitterly to himself. “Claim the land that my father gave them. Ubbe and Hvitserk,” He circled the table and sat himself at the head of it. “Two sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, are offering to lay down their arms.”

“They are brave warriors,” Heahmund said. “I saw that today.”

“We must consider their offer,” Alfred said. Ragnar liked this boy. Not just because he was wanting to consider Ubbe and Hvitserk’s offer of peace, but also because this boy was undoubtedly Athelstan’s.

“My father had no right to grant them that land. He was no longer king.”

“But now you are king,” said Alfred, “And you can offer it.” Aethelwulf gestured in some kind of vague agreement and Alfred turned to address Heahmund. “As a man of God, do you not advocate peace and mercy?”

“Yes, of course, my prince,” Heahmund said. He did not mean it, Ragnar knew. Heahmund stood and left the tent.

Aethelwulf and Alfred looked at each other, and seemed to come to a silent agreement. “Good,” Alfred said, to no-one in particular.

But Ragnar was no longer listening to Athelstan’s son. He was watching Heahmund stride out into the night. And Ragnar feared what the crazy Bishop had clearly got planned for his sons.

Ubbe and Hvitserk were sitting silently in their guarded tent. They did not need to use words; eye contact was enough to exchange entire conversations. Ubbe was silently reassuring a fidgety Hvitserk once again, nodding his head in encouragement, when the guard at the tent entrance was knocked down and armed men entered quickly. Ubbe swung around and Hvitserk’s hand shot to his sword but the men were too quick, their sword points finding a Viking throat each and stalling there in threat. Ubbe and Hvitserk stopped moving as the tips of the swords rested under their chins, tilting up their faces. And then Heahmund entered.

The Bishop came in slowly, not speaking a word. He crouched to pick up a dagger that Ubbe hadn’t been quick enough to retrieve. He stared at Ubbe before glancing at Hvitserk. Heahmund stood again. He unsheathed the dagger and pointed it dangerously close to Ubbe’s bloodshot left eye.

“Demons,” he said softly. “All of you, demons.” He moved towards Hvitserk, and Ubbe was frantically watching out of the corner of his eye as his little brother stared Heahmund down challengingly. The dagger point rested on the delicate skin right under Hvitserk’s own red eye. “I saw you today in battle, all carrying identical injuries. Demons at work. Heathens.”

Heahmund was speaking to Ubbe, because he knew that Hvitserk did not speak the language, but Ragnar assumed that Hvitserk could guess where Heahmund’s disgusted intrigue lay. Hvitserk curled his lip at him and Heahmund chuckled quietly, moving away, sheathing the dagger once more. He turned to one of the guards as though about to say something, before abruptly cracking the hilt of the dagger against Ubbe’s head. It threw Ubbe to the ground with a loud grunt, his head landing in Hvitserk’s lap. Hvitserk, who had seen and felt the blow at close range through their connection, clearly reacted, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing, as he turned his palms towards Ubbe’s face, because the sword point still at his neck kept him from doing anything else. Ubbe was yanked from Hvitserk’s lap and struck again and fell back towards Hvitserk once more. Hvitserk bit his lip against the pain and the pure frustration at his inability to do anything other than catch Ubbe again in his arms. Hvitserk had been the one that had come as protection rather than as negotiator, and so Heahmund was punishing him by making him watch and being unable to protect.

Heahmund pulled Ubbe back once more by his long braid and made him face Hvitserk, so that Hvitserk and Ragnar could both see the injuries on Ubbe’s face and the bruising already beginning to rise.

“I wonder…” Heahmund said, thoughtful, before striking Ubbe a third time, over his right eye, staring at Hvitserk intently. Ubbe let out a pained grunt.

Ragnar willed Hvitserk not to react, and to his credit, he didn’t do anything other than stare Heahmund down, but there was nothing Hvitserk could do about the blood vessels that burst in his right eye at the exact same time that Ubbe’s did. Correctly guessing what Heahmund was looking for, Hvitserk immediately shut his eyes, expression pained and skin pale.

Heahmund kept a tight grip on Ubbe’s hair, but unsheathed the dagger once more to add it to the blade already pointed at Hvitserk’s throat.

“Open your eyes,” he demanded.

Whether he understood the demand or not, Hvitserk kept them shut.

Heahmund growled. He beckoned one of his soldiers forward to take a hold of Ubbe and he stepped towards Hvitserk, grasping his chin and pressing the blade back under his eye; the right one this time.

“I said, open your eyes. Or I will kill your brother.”

The threat was a serious one. They all knew it. His tone was dangerous and again, whether Hvitserk understood or not, it was enough that he opened his eyes.

Ragnar heard the nervous murmurs of the superstitious soldiers around them, as they saw a shadow of the damage inflicted on Ubbe in Hvitserk’s red right eye.

“Impossible,” Heahmund snarled. “Devilry.” The tip of the blade bit into the delicate skin under Hvitserk’s eye and blood immediately began to well and seep down his cheek like a red tear from blood red eyes.

Ubbe’s own eyes had cracked open, and at the sight of his brother being handled in such a way, he made a deliberate grunting groan of noise, to draw Heahmund’s attention once more.

Heahmund stepped back, broken from his spell and back to the task at hand. He spat at them and left, the soldiers hauling Hvitserk and Ubbe to their feet and shoving them along behind him.

Ubbe and Hvitserk were dragged and shoved out of the camp, soldiers gathering to watch. Ubbe was released first and he reached immediately for Hvitserk, pulling him out of the grasps of the soldiers and towards him by his waist. Hvitserk’s hands went straight to Ubbe’s face, manhandling it to inspect the damage that had been done, before pulling him into a quick hug, Ubbe’s head in Hvitserk’s shoulder. They still held on to each other as they drew apart, eyeing the soldiers around them with wary fury, before turning into the night.

Heahmund had humiliated them, but he had made a terrible move. Ubbe and Hvitserk had gone there wanting peace. They left there wanting revenge.

***

Ivar could have said ‘I told you so’, because he had been right. But he was far too furious for that.

Yes, his brothers had been foolish, but Ragnar could see that his fury at Heahmund’s action and his protectiveness of his family outweighed the need to mock his brothers.

Ubbe had been injured and Hvitserk had been in such close proximity that he had felt that pain too, intensely, so much that both of their pain had struck Ivar and Sigurd in York. While Ivar and Sigurd had avoided a second red eye, Hvitserk had not, and sported a cut that had been spilling red tears down his face. Ubbe’s right eye was blood-filled and swelling shut, surrounded by cuts and bruising. Ubbe was in pain and Hvitserk was still pale and staring and distant. Both of them were practically vibrating with fury. Humiliation, yes, but mostly fury.

Ivar needed that. So he did not mock. He allowed himself to be as angry as he felt on their behalf.

“You went there to make peace! Make a deal!” he raged. If he could pace, he would be pacing. As it was, he sat in his wooden chair, his fingers curled hard around the wooden arms, digging his nails into the wood. “How dare they? How dare they?!”

“Aethelwulf and Alfred would have accepted,” Ubbe said, “It was Heahmund.”

“That bastard,” Ivar spat. “He is a coward. He made it so that you could not fight back, so that he would get away with it. He wanted to humiliate you, to make you look weak!”

“Yes, we get it,” Ubbe said softly, pained, “You told us so, right?”

“Bah!” Ivar waved Ubbe’s words aside. “None of that. You made a bad call yes, even though I warned you this would happen, but at this point I don’t even care. I could feel it, Ubbe I could _feel_ it. The pain from both of you! You two are lucky to be alive.”

“Heahmund must pay for this,” Sigurd said simply, where he was perched on a table nearby, watchful of his brothers. “I did not foresee that this would happen,” he gestured at Ubbe and Hvitserk’s injured faces, “But last night I dreamed of Heahmund. He will not stop. He will try to destroy us.”

“Not if we destroy him first,” Ubbe snarled.

Ivar’s smug smile split his face. “So you are not going away to farm, brothers?”

“Not right now,” Ubbe said. “The war’s not over. Now, we fight.”

Sigurd nodded his agreement. “We fight.”

“We fight!” the Viking warriors at the back of the hall yelled in united agreement.

“Hvitserk?” Ivar looked to the only one left to agree.

Hvitserk was still glaring blindly ahead, both eyes red, his teeth grinding. “We fight. We destroy them,” he said abruptly, snapping back into focus as his red eyes fixed suddenly on Ivar. “And that is _my_ decision.”

Ivar beamed at him. “We will destroy them all,” Ivar vowed.

“Then it is decided,” Ubbe said, standing, still effectively authoritative despite his beaten face. “Father will not have his family sundered and split just yet. We still stand united.”

Yes they did, Ragnar thought proudly to himself. They still stood united. They would all fight the battle. They would all take Heahmund down. They would all take Aethelwulf down. They would all take them all down.


	3. Chapter 3

Destroying Aethelwulf, Heahmund and their army of men did not prove to be easy. Now wiser to the fact that Ragnar’s sons were applying strategies of warfare that were out of the Viking-norm – thanks to Ivar’s tactical mind – and that a portion of their Great Heathen Army had returned to their respective countries, or were exploring new seas and islands, Aethelwulf and his sons and Heahmund had acted accordingly. They split their force into smaller bands, which meant that while Ragnar watched his sons triumph in skirmish after skirmish, it was only against fractions of the number of the opposing army that had managed to survive the Great Heathen Army. And at each triumph his sons would realise that Aethelwulf, Aethelred, Alfred and Heahmund were not amongst the leaders.

“This is that Christian’s mind, I know it,” Ivar complained, tapping his finger knowingly against his own head. “Aethelwulf is too stuck in his old strategies for this. But that Christian…he is different. He can see things differently.” _Like me_ was not said, but was heard nevertheless.

“He is mad, you mean,” Sigurd commented pointedly.

The comment was either going to raise Ivar’s hackles or amuse him, and it was always a gamble. But on this occasion the latter won out. “If you are implying that I am also mad…” Ivar grinned lazily. “I do not deny it. The Christian is clearly a great warrior, also. I do not take that as an insult.”

“But he is Christian,” Hvitserk pointed out.

“Yes,” Ivar agreed, lip curling. “That is where he fails. But despite that, we cannot underestimate him.”

“We cannot,” Ubbe agreed. “Not if we want to break down their forces and finish this once and for all.”

“I am sure that there will be more games to play yet, brother,” Ivar grinned once more. “We will win, of course, but we don’t want to lose you to the farmer’s life too soon.”

Ubbe didn’t rise to it and just rolled his eyes, cuffing the back of Ivar’s head as his brother cackled; in a remarkably good mood.

The good mood did not last long. Ragnar could only watch with gritted teeth as the Viking camp slept in the dead of night and an opposing force, led by Heahmund, surrounded the camp.

Ragnar watched Sigurd wake, tense and sensing something wasn’t right, possibly having seen something with his special sight, and Ragnar found himself more than grateful for that snake in his son’s eye. Sigurd rolled over and reached for Ubbe’s shoulder, shaking him awake. Ubbe woke with wild, wide eyes, but did not say anything when he saw Sigurd place a finger to his lips.

“Something is not right,” Sigurd whispered. “I had a vision. I think there is going to be an attack.”

Ubbe nodded silently, motioning for Sigurd to go and warn the sleeping men in the camp, and those on guard. Sigurd immediately obeyed, leaving their tent, as Ubbe woke Hvitserk with a hand over his mouth to make sure he stayed quiet, before moving his hand to the back of his brother’s neck as Hvitserk started to sit up, Ubbe relaying the situation with just a look. Ubbe indicated that he was going to also go and wake the men, and went after Sigurd, leaving Hvitserk to wake Ivar.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk moved to his youngest brother, sleeping on the far side of the tent. Hvitserk had barely laid a hand on Ivar’s shoulder when Ivar woke, startled, sitting up abruptly and quick as a flash of lightening, had a dagger pressed to Hviterk’s neck. “Ivar,” Hvitserk whispered, because Ivar was unseeing, still in the grips of sleep, not recognising his brother, but his expression was fierce, dangerous; he may have even picked up on Sigurd’s uneasiness after the vision of men coming to attack them and mistaken Hvisterk for the enemy. “Ivar,” Hvitserk tried again, this time growling his name sternly, and something must have snapped awake in their mental connection, because immediately Ivar’s eyes cleared and he lowered the blade with wide eyes.

“I thought we were getting attacked,” Ivar said, “I am sorry.”

“We _are_ getting attacked, Ivar,” Hvitserk whispered in a rush. “Sigurd saw it.”

Realisation dawned in Ivar’s expression and the pair of them broke apart to arm themselves. By the time they had made it out of the tent, the ambush had already started.

It was so dark that it was almost impossible to see who was who in the dark; who was enemy, who was not. But Ragnar’s boys, they used their connection to fight as a strong unit, as smooth and coordinated as they used to be in training, as they had honed in their previous battles.

“We have to get out of here, now!” Ubbe shouted to them. He could see that despite their own abilities, their men as a whole were at a disadvantage.

“We have to make a stand!” Ivar demanded.

“We are going to lose too many!” Ubbe argued. “We need to avoid needless slaughter! We need to regroup and reattack. Hvitserk, tell him!”

“Don’t be stubborn, Ivar!” Sigurd cut in sharply. “We have to go. Now. ”

“Then go!” Ivar snapped.

“Hvitserk!” Ubbe ordered, “Come on, we have to go!”

Hvitserk cut down his latest opponent and found that he was standing with Ubbe and Sigurd on one side and Ivar on the other. Caught in the middle.

“Hvitserk,” Ivar implored, “You are not going to _retreat_ are you?”

“We aren’t retreating,” Ubbe shouted, “We are regrouping and attacking at our advantage! Hvitserk! Grab Ivar and let’s go; Sigurd...”

“I’m staying right here, brother,” Ivar snarled, throwing a handaxe into a nearby man in armour. “Hvitserk, stay in the fight with me.”

“Hvitserk,” Ubbe said again. “Come with me.”

And in that moment, Hvitserk was faced with a choice to make. And in the heat of that moment, in the fire of the battle, in his dislike of the idea of a retreat no matter if it _was_ to regroup, and possibly also because of how Ubbe had ordered him, Hvitserk chose Ivar.

Ubbe stared at him for a moment as Hvitserk moved towards where Ivar was fighting and Ivar crooned “Hvitserk,” like he had won some kind of great battle within a battle, and the next thing Ragnar knew, Ubbe was grabbing Sigurd’s upper arm and hauling him in the direction of men that they were going to implore to regroup and reattack.

Confusion in the dark followed, and it was not until Ubbe and Sigurd had led half of the men successfully away from the battlesite that they knew that Ivar and Hvitserk really had not followed. They really had chosen to stay.

“They are going to get themselves killed,” Ubbe hissed to Sigurd through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched.

“But they are still alive right now,” Sigurd said, and Ragnar wondered whether they could feel the mental connection to their brothers buzzing with the adrenaline of battle. “We need to keep it that way.”

Ubbe nodded sharply, “We have to regroup and get back to the fight as soon as we know where the enemy are weakest.”

“The enemy think we have retreated,” Sigurd agreed, “So we will definitely take them by surprise.”

“Good. That is what we needed them to think,” Ubbe said, “Let’s go.”

Ragnar watched as Ubbe and Sigurd successfully regrouped their men and reattacked the camp. They did indeed have the element of surprise, and they triumphed in wiping out any remaining attackers of the camp.

But while Ubbe and Sigurd had been regrouping, Ivar and Hvitserk and their band of men had managed to overpower Bishop Heahmund and had taken him prisoner, dragging him away from the camp and into the night.

By the time Ubbe and Sigurd arrived at the camp, Ivar, Hvitserk and most of the Vikings that had stayed in the camp had disappeared, with no word as to where they had gone.

As morning broke, Ubbe and Sigurd realised that a whole new armed force of the enemy had been purposefully situated between them and the direction they believed their brothers had gone.

If that had been Heahmund’s plan – the whole purpose of the night-attack – to physically separate the four sons of Ragnar Lothbrok enough that they were no longer in that close unstoppable unit, then he had succeeded.

The four sons of Aslaug and Ragnar Lothbrok had been split up. And not for the better.

***

“You chose me and not Ubbe,” Ivar said to Hvitserk the next day, after they had made it back to the safety of a village on the outskirts of York. “I am surprised.”

“He called me to him as though he expected me to just follow at his heels at his command. I am not some faithful dog,” Hvitserk said, adamant, before glaring at Ivar and adding, “I am no-one’s dog.”

Ivar’s lips spread into a sly smirk, as though he knew better; that Ivar had done exactly the same as Ubbe and called Hvitserk to him, and that Hvitserk had just turned to follow him instead.

Hvitserk did not see that smile; he was busy watching Bishop Heahmund with distaste and suspicion. The Bishop was being dragged into the village by a rope around his hands and his neck, and was heavily guarded. His light eyes were flint-sharp and staring, wide and crazed, as he was pulled along.

“I do not understand why we are keeping him alive,” Hvitserk said, lip curling at the sight of him. “After what he did to Ubbe…”

“Ubbe is not here, Hvitserk,” Ivar quirked his eyebrow in amused challenge, “Remember?”

“After what he did to _me too_ , Ivar,” Hvitserk corrected with a growl. “What is the point of keeping him? Why don’t you just kill him?”

“Because he is a great warrior. We have both seen how he fights, with our own eyes. I admire great warriors.”

Hvitserk blinked at the insinuation, confused at the realisation of what Ivar was implying; “He is not going to fight for us, Ivar,” he said slowly, as though it were blatantly obvious, while searching Ivar’s face.

 “Maybe he will,” Ivar shrugged, eyes glinting, “If he does not want to get crucified.” He grinned broadly at Hvitserk, proving that crucifixion likely would be Heahmund’s fate, in the long run. Hvitserk’s face broke into an answering grin and Ivar nudged him playfully. “But before then, he will provide some entertainment for us, no? We can ask him about his strange gods and get him to fight whoever we choose. He is our prisoner! We can do what we want. We can humiliate him, Hvitserk, like he humiliated you.” Ivar clasped Hvitserk’s shoulder when Hvitserk’s smile dropped into a frown at the memory of his humiliation at Heahmund’s hands. “This is vengeance, big brother. We should enjoy it.”

The problem was, as the days went on, Ivar became intrigued with Heahmund. Ivar made him fight Viking warriors and was thrilled by the manic, brutal way in which Heahmund won each and every battle. Ivar liked to ask him questions about his gods, heckle and prod and gain as much information as he could; always learning. He found out that Heahmund was good at chess. They played it a lot. And throughout it all Hvitserk watched uneasily and increasingly frustrated from the sidelines. Hvitserk tried to convince Ivar to stop toying with Heahmund and just kill him, but Ivar was becoming increasingly reluctant to do so; it began to appear that it was not Heahmund that Ivar was enjoying toying with anymore, as he began to tease and wind up Hvitserk instead.

Ragnar could see both sides of the argument over Heahmund. After what he had seen Heahmund do to Ubbe and Hvitserk, and what he had heard the Bishop say of what he wanted to do to his sons, Ragnar, if he had been there, would have killed Heahmund on the spot, the moment they had captured him. He would have just killed him, just as Hvitserk wanted to do, and kill him slowly at that.

But, Ragnar was also a curious man, who had captured and thrown questions at his own Christian man, so Ragnar could not deny that he understood Ivar’s fascination with the Bishop. Ragnar would be a hypocrite if he said that he didn’t understand Ivar’s fascination and quest to learn as much as he could. But there was an obvious difference between Ragnar and his Christian man, and Ivar and his, and that was that Athelstan had been a good man, a kind man. Bishop Heahmund was a dangerous man. Bishop Heahmund and Ivar held a relationship more akin to the one Ragnar had had with King Ecbert; a battle of wits, a game of intelligence. A dangerous game.

But Ivar continued to play it, and Heahmund continued to play it, and Hvitserk was forced to watch; both metaphorically and literally, as Ragnar watched Ivar and Heahmund play yet another game of chess. Hvitserk was not watching, but he was in the same room, sitting alone in one corner, carving runes into the top of a table with a blade.

“What will your brothers think?” Heahmund asked Ivar, moving a piece on the board. “When they finally rejoin you and find me here and alive?”

“You would not be alive for much longer,” Hvitserk cut in from across the room, not even looking at them. “When our brothers return.”

“When our brothers return… _if_ they return…” Ivar shrugged, pretending not to care. Ragnar knew that Ivar did, in fact, care, more than he let on.

Ragnar did not need to be a part of that mental connection to know that Ivar was keeping a mental track of Ubbe and Sigurds’ wellbeings and emotions in their absence, just as much as Hvitserk was, and just as much as Ubbe and Sigurd were doing in return.

“Then I will make them understand the use of you, Heahmund,” Ivar continued. “Because you are a great warrior to have fighting on our side.”

“But you would not fight your brothers over me.”

“I would not. But I could.”

Hvitserk snorted in disbelief, feeling in their connection that Ivar was lying. Both Ivar and Heahmund ignored him, because they all knew, Heahmund included, that Ivar was lying.

“They don’t frighten you, your brothers?” Heahmund asked. Sometimes Ragnar believed Heahmund asked those kind of questions with the intention of angering Hvitserk and causing arguments between Ivar and Hvitserk. It was a good ploy, but it was never going to work.

“No. Well, maybe my brother Bjorn, just a little. I don’t find him very smart, but he is a great warrior. They call him Bjorn Ironside. But he is away travelling so that does not matter. Ubbe and Sigurd? No. They do not frighten me. And Hvitserk?” Ivar added, as though Hvitserk was not there, as though he were an afterthought, and Hvitserk’s shoulders tensed. “No.”

“Of course they don’t,” Heahmund said. “Because you are all connected. A devilish power.”

Heahmund had attempted time and time again to get Ivar to talk about however it was that the four brothers were connected to each other, but Ivar had never once revealed a single thing. Ivar especially, despite his words to the contrary, coveted and protected that connection like life itself.

“Devilish power?” Ivar repeated, amused, with a wide grin, turning to aim it towards Hvitserk, and looking a little disappointed that Hvitserk wasn’t looking at them. Ivar turned back to Heahmund. “If that is what you want to call it.” 

“That is why you would not be able to fight against your brothers,” Heahmund said with certainty. “You could never kill each other. Blood in the white of the eye of one spreads to the rest? Think of what a sword or axe would do. And think of that sword or axe being in your own hand…”

The dagger in Hvitserk’s hand stabbed loudly into the table at the same time that Ivar swept the board game aside with a crash, pieces rolling loudly across the table.

“That is not your concern,” Ivar snarled at Heahmund over the scattered pieces. “I will not fight my brothers because I will never have to. When they arrive here we may decide to keep you alive, or we may not. It does not matter, because whether you are with us or not there will be more in this country for us to conquer. And who knows?” he sat back, calming instantly, the red fog of anger passing quickly, “If you are alive at that time, you could help us think of a strategy to conquer the rest.”

Heahmund simply raised his eyebrow at Ivar’s outburst and laughed once he had finished, frustratingly unaffected by Ivar’s threat, and how it had been so closely followed by the admission of Ivar’s preference that Heahmund live. “You would trust me to do that? Even though I don’t care which side wins?”

“Ah,” Ivar said, wagging his finger at him. “But you want to win. I see that.”

“And I want to be around people who want to win,” Heahmund agreed, implying that he expected that the Vikings would win the ultimate fight, which Ragnar had no doubt about. “What they do afterwards, who cares? The fact is, I will only fight for you because I am certain, as certain as I can be, that God wishes me to do so. That I am part of some plan which I cannot comprehend.”

“Then you believe like us,” Hvitserk piped up again, finally turning around in his seat to look at them, only having just relaxed after stabbing the dagger into the wood at Heahmund’s talk of the brothers turning against each other, fighting each other, killing each other. “That you are fated, huh?”

Heahmund shook his head. “No I still believe that I have free will.” He did not look at Hvitserk. He maintained eye contact with Ivar. “I choose to fight for you.”

Ivar scoffed. “If you are fated, it does not matter if you choose or not. You simply have the illusion of being free to choose.”

Hvitserk turned back around to his carved runes. “I don’t know,” he muttered, a little bitter.

Ivar turned to stare at him. “Excuse me?”

Hvitserk shrugged a shoulder. “I just don’t know if when I joined your side whether it was free will, or fate, or someone else’s will.”

Ivar contemplated this, watching his brother calculatingly. Hvitserk had been dealing with a lot of self-doubt in regards to Ivar’s teasing that Hvitserk was the most susceptible to suggestion of the four brothers; that his decisions were not his own but those of his brothers. And that was what Hvitserk was implying by his words: free will, fate or someone else’s will. Was it the gods? Was it Hvitserk’s own choice? Or was it that Ivar’s mind called to him more strongly than Ubbe’s at that moment in which Hvitserk had had to choose, which would mean that it hadn’t been Hvitserk’s decision at all.

But none of that could be discussed in front of Heahmund, who was still too curious, dangerously so, in the connection of the Ragnarsons. And so Ivar just curled his lip. “What does it matter?” he asked Hvitserk. “Hmm?”

“I guess it doesn’t,” Hvitserk surrendered, dejected.

“No it doesn’t,” Ivar agreed sharply. He turned back towards Heahmund. “I am bored of you for the time being. Take him away,” he ordered of the guards by the edge of the room, who obediently escorted Heahmund away. The moment that Heahmund was gone, Ivar hauled himself over to sit opposite Hvitserk. “What was that about?” Ivar demanded, “Why did you say what you said?”

“Why did I say what _I_ said?” Hvitserk snapped, angrily. “You talked down to me in front of that Christian!”

“I am sorry,” Ivar said.

“You are sorry?”

“I am sorry you did not go with Ubbe and Sigurd that night,” Ivar sneered. “It was a mistake.” Ivar tapped a finger against his own head. “I know you have regretted it ever since. Isn’t that true? Huh? Poor Hvitserk.”

Hvitserk stared at him, not blinking, expression unchanging as he admitted; “Maybe sometimes.”

“Maybe sometimes,” Ivar repeated, like he had known it all along. He gave a small huff of a bitter laugh. “I thought that perhaps you came with me because you love me.” Ivar watched as Hvitserk stared at him. “But of course you didn’t,” Ivar said. “How could you ever love me?”

Hvitserk let out an exasperated laugh, rubbing his hand tiredly over his face. “Of course I love you, brother,” Hvitserk said, earnest, and Ragnar knew that Ivar would be able to feel that is was the truth through their connection. “I have always loved you, Ivar, and I always will no matter what you do or say to me,” he said. “But it would be nice if you treated me with the same respect.”

“You know I love you, Hvitserk,” Ivar dismissed; again, it was totally honest.  He was smiling a little at hearing his brother’s admission. “You know that.” He reached over to poke a finger to Hvitserk’s chest. “You can feel that.” Ivar’s face fell. “Which is why I am sad when I can also feel the doubt from you about your decision. You blame fate, you blame me. You make choices too, Hvitserk.”

“You always say that I cannot make my own decisions.”

“But that does not support my argument this time,” Ivar replied with a cheeky grin.

Hvitserk did not look either pleased or appeased by the tease.

And later, once the sky had grown dark and Hvitserk had left Ivar and Heahmund to yet another game of wits and words and chess, Ragnar watched his third son climb to the battlements of York and look out to the sky.

“Did I make the right choice?” Hvitserk asked the night, and Ragnar knew from the visual tremor of Ragnar’s view of the world that Hvitserk was asking the gods, and that they were listening. “Did I make the right choice to stay here and not go with Bjorn? Did I make the right choice choosing to go with Ivar? When will Ubbe and Sigurd return to us?” He sighed. “What is my fate? Give me a sign…”

The gods listened, but they did not answer.

“Why will you not answer him,” Ragnar growled to himself.

They listened to Ragnar.

An arrow flew past Hvitserk’s shoulder and embedded into one of the shields propped up behind him. He looked over the battlements and heard a shout of an apology from a young Viking that was training below.

Hvitserk grinned. That was all the sign he needed; his fate was to fight. He would not lose spirit. He would not regret; life was too short. If that arrow had just been a few inches further off course…he did not have time for regrets.

And two days later, through interference of the gods or not, Ubbe and Sigurd returned.

***

Ragnar had been following Ubbe and Sigurd’s progress as much as he had been watching Ivar and Hvitserk’s.

Over the days since they had been split up from their brothers and half of their men by Aethelwulf’s forces, Ubbe and Sigurd had been leading their own band of men back to York, fighting their way through, if needs be, as Aethelwulf’s army had spread themselves far to stop the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok from reuniting.

But, as with most of Aethelwulf’s campaigns against the Great Heathen Army so far, it did not keep them at bay for long, and Ubbe and Sigurd’s men successfully broke through the ranks and made their way back to York.

A lot could happen in a matter of days. If they had not known it before with all that they had been through to get back to York, they were about to discover it even more so on their arrival.

Neither of their brothers were there to meet them as they came through the city gates. Ubbe and Sigurd traded looks, and then proceeded to trade words with the men who had stayed at York and with Ivar and Hvitserk.

It did not take them long to learn about the Bishop. And after that, it did not take them long to track down Hvitserk.

Their brother was busy sharpening his sword, and did not look up as they approached.

“Are you not going to welcome us home, brother?”

Hvitserk’s head shot up. “This is not home,” he said, tone flat, but his actions betrayed his melancholy tone as he immediately dropped the sword and stood, striding to them as a beaming smile broke onto his face.

His smile faltered when he went to hug Ubbe, and Ubbe did not reciprocate, merely cupping Hvitserk’s cheek in his palm. Ubbe regarded him, and he looked disappointed, and they all knew why. Ubbe was still upset that Hvitserk had chosen Ivar over him.

“How is Ivar?” Ubbe asked pointedly, proving that to be the case.

Hvitserk shrugged. “He is Ivar.”

Hvitserk turned to Sigurd and seemed grateful when his younger brother slung an arm around his neck in a hug.

“No doubt you regret it now,” Ubbe said, once his brothers’ embrace had ended.

Hvitserk shrugged again and replied pettily; “What’s the point of regret?” - as had become his mantra after his sign from the gods.

Ubbe frowned, unable to understand his brother’s attitude; particularly where Heahmund was concerned. “The Saxon we met in Aethelwulf’s camp, Bishop Heahmund.” He searched Hvitserk’s suddenly sheepish expression. “Why is he here?”

Hvitserk shifted his feet, finally looking chastened. “Ivar captured him in the battle. The Bishop is a great, great warrior. He said he will fight on our side.” It didn’t sound like Hvitserk’s opinion. It sounded like he was repeating the words of somebody else. They all knew whose.

“He won’t fight for us,” Sigurd said, adamant.

“He will fight for the winning side. We are the winning side.”

“You vowed to kill him.”

“And I will. When he has fought for us.”

Ubbe cocked his head, regarding his brother thoughtfully, “I think you have spent too much time in only Ivar’s company. His influence has been stronger than you are used to…”

That was entirely the wrong thing to say. Hvitserk snarled, teeth bared, and hissed, “I have been given my sign. I know my fate. I know the choices I make. And if you do not stay out of my way I will prove it.” And with that, Hvitserk was gone, like a furious storm.

As Ragnar had previously observed; Hvitserk was enthusiastic, and his excitement would impact on his brothers most over Hvitserk’s other emotions. Apparently the exhilaration of anger did the same; as Ubbe and Sigurd were left glaring after him.

“You would do well to stay out of his way,” Sigurd recommended. “Until he has calmed down.”

“Yes, well,” Ubbe curled and then smacked his lips angrily. “He would do well to stay out of mine.”

“And Ivar?” Sigurd prompted.

“Oh, we are very much going to get in _his_ way.”

But, as Ubbe and Sigurd learned not much later, they would have to get past Ivar’s bodyguards first.

They had heard that Ivar was getting a new tattoo; they should have felt it really, the familiar tingle on the skin of their backs, but Ragnar supposed that the fiery temper that Hvitserk was in was drowning most of that out.

On the way to Ivar’s location, their paths were blocked by several of the biggest, brutish Vikings in their army.

Not that that fazed the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. It merely irritated them.

“Let us through,” Ubbe said, utterly bewildered as to why anyone would be daring to stop them.

Shields went up in response.

Sigurd scoffed and eyed up another of the warriors patronisingly. “Do you know who we are?” he asked, incredulous.

“We know who you are,” the man in front of Ubbe said. “What do you want?”

“I want to speak to my brother Ivar,” Ubbe said. He laughed, like he couldn’t believe he was being stopped and questioned. “Now, get out of my way.”

The bodyguard – for that was clearly what he was – did not move a muscle, his expression hard. “I will ask him and see if it is all right.”

“No you won’t,” Ubbe said lightly, and smiled a smile that was more bared teeth, and he stared up at the taller, broader Viking standing in his way, with the crazed, wide-eyed look he did so well. He said his threatening words in a lighthearted tone. “Because you will not have a tongue to ask him with. I will nail it to that post just over there,” he nodded in the direction of the forementioned post. “Do you understand?”

It did not take long for the big, burly Viking warriors to shift and part to let Ubbe and Sigurd through.

“Ubbe! Sigurd!” Ivar exclaimed when he caught sight of them, he grinned excitedly. “You have returned! It took you long enough, my brothers. Have you taken a look around? We have been working on strengthening the defences, just like you kept going on about. And it is going well! Look! I…”

Ubbe and Sigurd stopped before him and adopted an almost identical stance; legs set apart, arms crossed, eyebrows raised; unimpressed.

“Why do you need a personal bodyguard, Ivar?” Ubbe asked.

“What?” Ivar asked, faux-innocently. The tattooist continued to tap-tap the ink into Ivar’s skin.

“We were just stopped by your bodyguards,” Ubbe waved an idle hand behind them. “Why do you need them? Hmm?” When Ivar did not reply Ubbe continued; “Do you need protection against us? Against your brothers?”

“Of course not,” Ivar said.

“Then why have them?” Sigurd demanded.

“Because I am a cripple,” Ivar shrugged. “I need a bodyguard.”

“I don’t believe you…” Sigurd said. “Since when have you ever needed a bodyguard for being a cripple? You would normally find that insulting.”

“It is not just the bodyguard, Ivar,” Ubbe continued. “The fact is, you never seem to consult us about anything. It is as if you think you are now the leader of our Great Army.”

Ivar abruptly held up his hand to halt the tattooist, and the man obediently left them alone.

“Do you think you are the leader?” Ubbe asked.

“No, I don’t. Why would I ever think such a thing?”

“I am glad to hear you say that, because you are not the leader.”

“But, while you were away…”

“While we were away,” Ubbe interrupted, tone warning, “It should have been you _and_ Hvitserk in charge.” He waited, watching Ivar knowingly. “Was it?”

Ivar shrugged innocently. “Well, you know Hvitserk…” he regarded them just as knowingly, “I assume it is because of you two that I can feel he is in a temper. Have you already seen him by any chance?”

“Do not change the subject, Ivar.”

Ivar did not reply as he became distracted, his eyes flicking away from them. Ubbe and Sigurd followed Ivar’s line of sight, to see Hvitserk hit a shield of one of Ivar’s bodyguards as he shoved through them and started to stalk towards them.

“We are back now,” Ubbe caught Ivar’s attention again. His voice low and commanding. “We four brothers are the leaders together. Mmm? As our father would have wished.”

Ubbe was correct. Ragnar did wish it. His sons each had their own strengths as leaders, and working as a unit they were a force to be reckoned with.

“We are older than you, Ivar,” Sigurd added. “You cannot just push us aside. It is unacceptable.”

“No you are right, Sigurd,” Ivar agreed, but his tone was patronising.

“Then tell us why that Bishop is still alive,” Ubbe growled, just as Hvitserk reached them.

“The Bishop is alive because he is useful to us,” Ivar said. “We agreed, didn’t we, Hvitserk?”

Hvitserk faltered in his tracks. This was a test; because Hvitserk did not want to admit to any of them that it had been Ivar’s decision, that Hvitserk hadn’t made his own decision about Heahmund’s fate, and Ivar knew it. 

“We did,” Hvitserk stated, eyeing Ubbe and Sigurd challengingly, and then Ivar, “We will kill him though.”

“When he inevitably betrays us?” Sigurd sneered. “Just like he did to you Hvitserk, and Ubbe.”

“When he has served his purpose,” Hvitserk corrected. “Right Ivar?”

“Sure,” Ivar shrugged, both sounding and looking noncommittal.

“And if I just go over there and kill him now?” Ubbe asked. 

“It is two against two, Ubbe,” Ivar said. “If you try and kill him now then you will not be listening to the other leaders of our great army. We four brothers are the leaders together. Is that not right?”

“Ivar…” Sigurd warned.

“He is right,” Hvitserk countered.

“Hvitserk…” Ubbe implored.

“Hvitserk,” Ivar prodded.

“I am not dealing with this again!” Hvitserk kicked out at a barrel and stormed away.

“Honestly you two,” Sigurd snapped. “You are pulling at him like children fighting over a toy. Can you not feel his anger? If you are not careful he will grow tired of the both of you.” And then Sigurd stalked away in the opposite direction.

Ubbe glared at Ivar.

“What is the matter, big brother?” Ivar said. “I can feel Hvitserk’s anger and Sigurd’s annoyance, but I can feel your temper too. You are angry for not having your way, huh?”

“What happened to destroying them all, Ivar? I thought we had all decided on that, so my killing him right now should not even be up for debate.”

“Oh we will destroy them,” Ivar smiled innocently. “Eventually.”

“Immediately.”

“Eventually. And until either I or Hvitserk change our minds that is how it shall be. Four is a very difficult number for votes, brother. Shame there can’t be one less of us.”

Ubbe did a double-take; an animalistic flinch as though he had been struck. “You do not mean that.”

Ivar just shrugged petulantly and motioned his tattoo man back over, using it as a dismissal of his elder brother.

Without another word, Ubbe turned and walked away. In the direction that Hvitserk had gone.

“Go on brother,” Ivar muttered to himself, “Go and pull at your favourite toy until it tires of you.”

***

“Hvitserk,” Ubbe said.

Hvitserk glanced up from where he was seated in the brothers’ hall, sulking. “What is it?”

“Can I join you?”

Hvitserk shrugged. Ubbe sat.

“I was worried about you both when we were separated,” Ubbe said. “I was worried something had happened to you both…”

“You would have felt that.”

“I was worried that something might happen to you both,” Ubbe amended.

Hvitserk glanced at him, apologetically. “I worried about you and Sigurd too,” Hvitserk admitted. “Do not think that I didn’t.”

“I know you did. And I know Ivar did, although he does not act like it.”

“He cares in his own way.”

“In his own way,” Ubbe agreed. “And did he care about your opinion when he decided to keep Heahmund alive?”

“I was unhappy about it at first,” Hvitserk argued, “Because of what happened to you and me, but Ivar made me see…”

“Ivar is in the wrong,” Ubbe interrupted; telling, not suggesting. “Why are you supporting him?”

“Because I…”

“Do not tell me it is because you and he are brothers. You and I are brothers, too…”

“If you would let me finish one gods damned sentence,” Hvitserk growled.

Ubbe held up his hands and waited, but Hvitserk clenched his jaw and looked away and did not say anything.

“Do not risk your life for Ivar’s stupid decisions,” Ubbe beseeched gently.

Hvitserk glanced back at him, “Haven’t the gods already decided who I shall sacrifice my life for?” It sounded a little defeated, and Hvitserk seemed to know it, clenching his jaw shut again.

“No. Your life is _your_ decision,” Ubbe said, in that same encouraging, gentle tone. “Yours, Hvitserk. Sigurd said that Ivar and I have been fighting over you like a possession, and I am sorry, I did not mean to do that. I do not want to sway your decisions. But you must not let Ivar sway them either.”

Hvitserk did not reply. His fists clenched and unclenched on the tabletop.

“I just want us all to be one again. One force. All four of us on the same side. I do not like us taking different sides,” Ubbe said. “I do not want to fight over this, Hvitserk.” He grinned playfully and pushed Hvitserk’s shoulder. “I would not want to meet you face-to-face in battle, little brother,” he joked. “I would not want to have to kill you.”

“Who says I wouldn’t kill you first,” Hvitserk replied, tone dry and deadpan.

Ubbe laughed like he highly doubted it and Hvitserk bristled. “Little brother,” Ubbe said fondly. “I missed you. Even that frown of yours.” He stood up. “I will leave you alone,” but he wrapped an arm around Hvitserk’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his head before he did.

“I missed you too,” Hvitserk mumbled as Ubbe walked away.

Hvitserk did not see Ubbe’s relieved smile as he left the tent, but Ragnar did. Maybe there was hope for his boys to fix the break between them after all.

If Heahmund did not split them further.

***

Sigurd kept having visions as he slept. They started out unnoticeable to the others – used to Sigurd’s generic dreams and visions as they were – but as the days went by and the more Heahmund cemented himself in the Viking army and the more Ubbe threatened Heahmund and the more the brothers postured around each other, and the more Ivar provoked them and spent time with Heahmund, and as Hvitserk continued to be torn and uncertain and irritated and angry because of it, Sigurd’s visions grew more intense.

Ragnar’s son was losing sleep and looking tired during the day. He started keeping to himself, playing his instruments and learning more of the local language and avoiding his brothers’ drama. But because Sigurd’s disturbed sleep was growing more intense, it began to affect the sleep of the others, and then they only became more irritable and the tension only thickened further.

The four brothers were at a standstill, a stalemate, a dare; a dare to see who would make a wrong move first. What happened next would determine whether the boys would reunite or forever be split apart, and Ragnar willed them to see sense and do the former.

Ragnar also wanted to see the visions that his fourth son was seeing, and because Ragnar was a hero warrior in Valhalla and because Ragnar willed it, Ragnar became able to see what Sigurd saw with his snake-in-the-eye.

The first night that Ragnar saw Sigurd’s visions, was the night that they peaked into their most intense, their most terrifying.

Ragnar saw the same flashes of vision that Sigurd saw;

_He saw Ivar and Ubbe watching each other, blue eyes fierce._

_He saw Heahmund’s eyes blazing._

_He saw the shocked look on Sigurd’s face as he looked down at an axe stuck in his chest._

_He saw Ivar gaping in shock, staring as Sigurd dropped to his knees._

_He saw Hvitserk lying on a battlefield, one side of his face pressed to the dirt as he gasped for breath._

_He saw Ivar hold a knife to Hvitserk’s neck. “You don’t understand,” he heard Ivar say to Hvitserk. “I am sorry you jumped ship. It was a mistake. I know you have regretted it ever since. Isn’t that true? Huh? Poor Hvitserk.”_

_“I would not want to meet you face-to-face in battle, little brother,” he heard Ubbe say to Hvitserk. “I would not want to have to kill you.”_

_He saw Hvitserk standing on a battlefield as Ubbe swung his sword towards Hvitserk’s neck. Hvitserk’s eyes were screwed shut._

_He saw Ubbe about to kill an injured Heahmund, and Ivar stopping him._

_He heard Ivar say to Ubbe; “You were once my legs, but not anymore.”_

_He saw all four brothers screaming with pain and agony and rage._

_He saw blood. So much blood._

“Sigurd!”

Both Sigurd and Ragnar were wrenched from Sigurd’s vision. Sigurd launched up from his bed, panting and wild and confused; his hair a tangled mess about his head.

Ragnar watched Sigurd stare about him, still unseeing, not quite recognising the fact that all three of his brothers were sitting or standing around him, staring at him with concern.

“Sigurd,” Ivar insisted, dragging himself up to sit on the end of Sigurd’s bed. He rubbed at his eyes. “You dream too loud.”

“Sigurd,” Ubbe said, more softly, “Are you alright?”

Sigurd clocked Hvitserk first, where he was hovering beside the bed. He was not blood spattered. There were no blade severs in his neck. “Hvitserk?” Sigurd asked, sounding relieved.

“Yes brother?” Hvitserk asked, looking confused.

Sigurd blinked, and finally seemed to arrive in the present, looking to Ubbe and Ivar as well. “You are all here.”

“Of course we are,” Ivar scoffed, “How can we sleep when you are causing such a storm in our heads.” He tapped his head as though to prove his point.

“ _Of course we are_ ,” Ubbe repeated, corrected, sending Ivar a disapproving look, “We could feel your turmoil, Sigurd. We were worried. What has happened?”

“Just…just visions,” Sigurd said, eyes wide. He stared at the others. “Did you see any of what I could see?”

“We don’t see what you can see,” Ivar rolled his eyes, as though they had had this conversation many times, which Ragnar supposed, they probably had over their lives. “We only know when you are seeing things because you keep us up all night with your stress.”

Sigurd swallowed, and it was testament to how rattled he was that he did not rise to Ivar’s mocking; which the other boys seemed surprised about too. They all knew then how serious Sigurd’s visions had been.

“The things I saw…” Sigurd started.

“What did you see?” Ubbe insisted.

“I do not know quite what it…” he paused, still taking quick, heavy breaths, eyes wide, “It was just flashes…”

“Things to come?” Ubbe asked.

“I don’t know,” Sigurd stared at him, “Gods, I hope it is not. I hope it was only a warning, and that we can change it.”

“What did you see, Sigurd?” Hvitserk insisted.

Sigurd swallowed, his fingers clenched around the rugs on the bed. “I saw us divided. Brother against brother. I saw partings of ways, unforgivable actions, blades at throats, blood.” He looked at each of his brothers in turn to see the shock in their pale faces. “And I saw what could well be the death of me,” he finished.

“What?” Ivar asked flatly.

Ubbe sat down heavily on the bed next to Sigurd. “We can’t let this happen.”

“We won’t,” Hvitserk said. “We won’t let it happen.”

“Well then we must no longer be at odds,” Ivar surmised, easily, as though it were easy. “Maybe, Sigurd, if you change your view on the argument, it will be three against one and Ubbe will be outvoted and then we can all come back together again.”

“Why should Sigurd or I back down Ivar? Hmm?” Ubbe said, eyes fierce. “You were the one that said it would be easier to vote between us if there was one less of us.”

Ivar flinched. “I did not mean it seriously, Ubbe. I am not wishing for these visions to come true.”

“Then why are we not dealing with Heahmund like we all agreed before you captured him?”

“Because the circumstances have changed,” Ivar shot back. “I will not change my mind. And Hvitserk will not change his mind, will you Hvitserk? So maybe one of you will change yours.” He slid back to the floor and began to crawl his way out of the room. “Sleep quieter, Sigurd, would you?” he requested before he was gone.

Ragnar could clearly see that Ivar was more rattled by Sigurd’s visions than he was letting on, and Ragnar knew that Ivar’s brothers could feel it too.

“Ivar’s crazy, you know that,” was all Hvitserk said with a shrug, as though that explained everything to do with why Ivar was decided against them, and, for some reason, why Hvitserk was standing with him. “He might be easier to talk to in the morning.” He reached out and squeezed Sigurd’s shoulder. “I won’t let you die, Sigurd.”

“And I won’t let you,” Sigurd promised, no doubt recalling the images he had seen of Ubbe and Ivar separately holding blades to Hvitserk’s neck; like they were both cutting him free from being stuck in the middle of their tug of war over him.

Sigurd had not told Hvitserk what he had seen, other than that he had seen ‘blades at throats’, because, Ragnar assumed,  Sigurd did not want to cause any more suspicion and turmoil amongst his three brothers unless absolutely necessary. Not when he was trying to get them all to reconcile and work together again.

Coincidentally, Hvitserk’s hand lifted from Sigurd’s shoulder to pat affectionately against the side of Sigurd’s neck before Hvitserk departed the room too.

Ubbe and Sigurd were left sitting side by side. The two brothers had grown closer in their days separated from the other two, and had come to rely on each other’s judgement far more than they ever had before. Ubbe had always had Hvitserk, and Sigurd had always been more of an outsider, and, what with the period of time that they had spent in each other’s company when Hvitserk had been travelling with Bjorn and Rollo and Ivar gone with Ragnar to England, and then again, once Aethelwulf’s army had separated them, they had recently become more accustomed to working together and looking to each other for advice or support.

“I will sort this, Sigurd,” Ubbe promised. “We will find a compromise. I know we will. We will not allow for what you have seen to happen to us.”

“I hope you are right,” Sigurd replied. “For all our sakes.”

***

Ragnar had been uncertain about Sigurd’s vision. More uncertain than Sigurd, because Sigurd could not see all that Ragnar could see, and so Sigurd could not know that Ragnar had seen two moments of that vision already happen, or were so similar to what Ragnar had seen before that it was uncanny.

Ragnar had already heard Ubbe say those exact words to Hvitserk before; “I would not want to meet you face-to-face in battle, little brother. I would not want to have to kill you.”

Ivar’s differed slightly. Ragnar had heard Ivar say to Hvitserk before; “I am sorry you did not go with Ubbe and Sigurd that night. It was a mistake. I know you have regretted it ever since. Isn’t that true? Huh? Poor Hvitserk.”

In Sigurd’s vision Ragnar had heard Ivar say; “You don’t understand. I am sorry you jumped ship. It was a mistake. I know you have regretted it ever since. Isn’t that true? Huh? Poor Hvitserk.”

It made little sense. Ubbe’s words to Hvitserk in Sigurd’s vision were exactly the same as Ragnar had heard him say them already, but Ivar’s were slightly different, and when Ivar had first said them he had not held a knife to Hvitserk’s neck, or been standing on a grass bank by a river. He _had_ held a knife to Hvitserk’s neck already, however, when Hvitserk had woken him and surprised him, and still half-asleep, Ivar had mistaken him for an attacker. Still, despite differences, just like Ubbe’s, Ivar’s words in the vision were too close to previous conversation to be considered coincidence.

Ragnar did not know what those parts of the vision meant. If Sigurd truly had been seeing the future, how were these conversations so similar? And yet different at the same time? Why would his sons be covering old territory? He did not know.

But he hoped that they would come to work together and make amends, and that what Sigurd had seen would never come to pass, and he hoped that he would not have to find out what Sigurd’s visions had all meant.

Luckily, his boys seemed keen to make amends with each other too, the morning following Sigurd’s visions.

“Hvitserk,” Ubbe smiled tiredly, and sat down beside his brother.

“If you have come to try and change my mind…”

“No. I have not. Even though I do not think you actually mean your decision and you are only sticking to it because you are stubborn.” Ubbe raised an eyebrow, and the fact that Hvitserk did not meet his eye proved him half-right. “Because,” Ubbe took a deep breath. “As I told you the other day, little brother, your decisions are your own.”

“You say that, and Ivar says that, and you keep saying that. But it does not stop you from purposefully trying to sway my decisions anyway, to get in my head,” Hvitserk jabbed a finger to his head. “If you think I have not noticed, you are wrong.”

“I am sorry, Hvitserk, hey,” Ubbe ducked to catch his younger brothers’ eyes, and wrapped his fingers around Hvitserk’s wrist. “I am sorry.”

Hvitserk gave an unimpressed sniff. “You do not deny it.”

“Because we both know that I would be lying, and I do not want to lie to you, brother. You are my best friend, Hvitserk, as well as my brother. The person I am closest to in the whole world. And I am sorry that I have hurt you. I do not want us to be at odds any longer. I have missed you.”

“Missed me standing by your side in all things? In all arguments?” Hvitserk sniped, but it held no heat, because Hvitserk did not truly mean it. He had missed Ubbe too, and they both knew it.

“I missed having you with me, whether we agreed or not,” Ubbe corrected, adamant.

Hvitserk gave him a disbelieving look, before scratching a nail over the wood of the table, staring at the action as he admitted; “I have only recently realised that what Ivar has been saying about my being unable to make my own decisions is true. And it has made me look back, and wonder. And since father died I do not know whether any of the decisions I have made have been my own. I have begun to question it.”

Hvitserk glanced up and Ubbe was watching him closely. “I am not able to control you, Hvitserk. And neither is Ivar.”

“No, but you can make your suggestions louder than the other. Why am I the one that struggles with it? Why doesn’t Sigurd? Or you? Or Ivar?”

“I have a theory on that,” Ubbe admitted, “It has only recently come to me, but I think I know why: Before you were born I was alone in my own head, just for a little while, and then you came into the world. And although you then joined me in my head, I had had my own mind to myself before that. But you? You had me there in your head from the moment you were born. Just me. Then Sigurd and Ivar were born, and they had at least two other people in their heads from the day _they_ were born…”

Hvitserk exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, “I know how it works, Ubbe…”

“What I am _saying_ is,” Ubbe said, tone lightly scolding at the interruption, “You were the only one to be born to only one other person in their head. When it was just the two of us, and I was older and you could not speak yet, I used to talk for the both of us, talk for you, make decisions for us. I have had my own mind alone before, and Sigurd and Ivar have always had a balance of voices. Ivar especially, has learned how to get his own way by appealing to one mind or the other, because he has had three other minds connected to his his whole life. You, for a while, only had one. That is why I think it is harder for you than it is for us. Because you were born to only one other mind, so you have always singled out one voice to listen to at a time; whichever voice implores to you loudest.”

“So what you are saying is…” Hvitserk said slowly. “That it is all _your_ fault?”

It was Ubbe’s turn to roll his eyes. “What I am _saying_ , is that maybe that is why the gods are sending you signs, because they know that you need to make your own decisions, outside of us.”

Hvitserk frowned, “You were not saying that when I sided with Ivar.”

“No, well,” Ubbe grasped Hvitserk’s shoulder and met his eyes with that powerful gaze of his. “I am saying it now, huh?”

Hvitserk’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “But it _is_ your fault.”

Ubbe cuffed him lightly in the jaw and Hvitserk grinned properly. “No, it is your fault for being the second son.”

“Third son,” Hvitserk corrected.

“You know what I mean,” Ubbe admonished, tapping at his head with his free hand. The second son born into the magical mental link they had, he had meant.

“Being the third son puts me in the middle,” Hvitserk said, conversational, but purposeful, “Right in the middle. I am always stuck in the middle.” There was accusation there, because it had become painfully obvious that Hvitserk was tired of being stuck in the middle of Ubbe and Ivar.

“Not anymore,” Ubbe said, with certainty, “I promise you brother. I will let you be, and I will make sure Ivar does too. We will find a compromise and go back to the way we were…”

“Do you think it will be that easy?” Hvitserk asked. He actually sounded hopeful. “To go back to how it was before all the arguments?”

“If you are willing to help us get there,” Ubbe said, earnest, “Then yes, I think we can.”

Hvitserk chewed on his bottom lip, deliberating, before nodding. “I want us back to being brothers again. Not split down the middle.”

“We will always be brothers,” Ubbe vowed, “Even when we argue. Even when we are far apart. Even if I am wrong and we cannot fix this and we all stop talking to each other, we will still be brothers, Hvitserk. You and me. Always.”

Hvitserk looked so grateful, and smiled broadly when Ubbe slung his arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Hvitserk and Ubbe had not hugged since Ubbe and Sigurd had returned to York; since Ubbe had not greeted him properly when they had reunited, and so Ragnar was not surprised by Hvitserk’s smile, nor Ubbe’s expression of relief that he and his brother were back to rights again.

As though to make sure, however, after the visions he had had, Sigurd found Hvitserk later that day.

“I do not envy you,” he said, “Being stuck in the middle of Ubbe and Ivar. Being pulled this way and that like a favourite toy.”

Hvitserk made a noise of agreement. “Why do they not fight over you like they do with me?”

Sigurd shrugged. “I am too stubborn. And I would not be torn between them. I know who is right and who is wrong, every time.”

“Is that you being far too complimentary to yourself, or an insult to me?” Hvitserk cocked an eyebrow upward.

Sigurd grinned.

Hvitserk waved a hand at him and made an ‘ach!’ noise to go with it. “You are always right. It is very irritiating, Sigurd.”

“The gift of sight.”

“Yes, yes,” Hvitserk dismissed. “Or the curse of it,” he said, sobering suddenly, “Do you think we can fix what you saw?” he sounded hopeful, “If we can make amends again?”

“I can only hope,” Sigurd said. “You and I, we are good, yes?” And at Hvitserk’s nod, Sigurd asked, “And you and Ubbe are good again, yes?”

Hvitserk nodded. “Just Ubbe and Ivar to work out, now.”

“Hmm,” Sigurd agreed grimly. “That is where the trouble will be.”

***

“So Hvitserk has come back to you, Ubbe. Why am I not surprised?” Ivar said, like he had been expecting it, “But he still is on my side, aren’t you, Hvitserk?”

“I am on your side, Ivar,” Hvitserk said, from where he and Sigurd were sitting  at the edge of the hall the brothers had taken for themselves, for some privacy. “But I am not going to fight with Ubbe and Sigurd over it.”

“And I do not want to fight either,” Ivar said, like Hvitserk’s words had surprised and offended him. “Who says I want to fight them?”

“If you are choosing keeping Heahmund alive over the promise we made as brothers,” Ubbe said, expression grim, “Then you are starting a fight, Ivar.”

Ivar scoffed. “I am not going to fight you, Ubbe.”

“And we do not want that, Ivar, so just get rid of Heahmund, like we said. It is not good to have him here, seeing how our army works.”

“I agree it is probably not a good idea, _if_ he turns against us.”

“Of _course_ he will turn against us! I do not see why you want him alive. After everything you promised,” Ubbe shook his head, at a loss, “I do not understand you, Ivar! Why would you make a promise to us,” he gestured at himself, Sigurd and Hvitserk. “And break it? We are your brothers!”

Ragnar did not know what his youngest son was doing either. Ragnar had told Ivar to be ruthless, and do him keeping Heahmund alive made little sense when Ivar had previously vowed to destroy him; to be ruthless. Ragnar had seen how fascinated Ivar had been by Heahmund, and was worried that his son had been deceived, or was being played for a fool.

But, as Ragnar was to learn for yet another time; he should never underestimate the brilliance of Ivar the Boneless.

Ivar’s posture and expression changed, no longer teasing, as it had been up until that point whenever the subject of Heahmund had been brought up, and finally, finally, he looked determined, serious. He was wearing his leg braces, so was able to walk up to Ubbe, and stare right into his eyes.

“How blue are my eyes, huh?” Ivar asked.

“What?” Ubbe seemed surprised by the change of topic, his own eyes wide and unblinking as they stared back into Ivar’s.

“How blue are my eyes?” Ivar insisted.

“Your eyes are very blue,” Ubbe said, tiredly, like he assumed Ivar was winding him up once more.

“Mmm,” Ivar hummed in agreement. “You remember I had to ask you every single morning how blue the whites of my eyes were, because if they were very blue, I was in great danger of breaking a bone?”

“Yes I remember,” Ubbe said, clearly growing frustrated, “It was a big part of my childhood; ‘How blue are Ivar’s eyes today…’”

Ragnar remembered it too, from the brief periods he had spent in Kattegat with his boys when they were children. He remembered every morning, Ivar’s eyes being checked for how blue they were. Ubbe himself, ever the mother-hen, had taken it upon himself, made it his duty, to make sure to check, or send one of his brothers to check. Ubbe had always been protective of Ivar, and Ivar, for the most part, let Ubbe big-brother him. It was clearly not doing either of them any good being at odds like this.

“I might break a bone,” Ivar said, fierce and fiery in his own defense, finally getting to his point. “But I can _never_ break a promise. And I vowed to destroy them all; Aethelwulf, Aethelred, Heahmund…did I not?”

“You did,” Ubbe replied, pointedly.

“Then we will destroy them all,” Ivar vowed. “Eventually. But Heahmund is useful…”

“More useful to us than dangerous?” Ubbe challenged.

“Let me explain?” Ivar asked, and it was so sincere and soft, the way that he asked, that Ubbe merely blinked in surprise, and Ivar took it as a sign to continue; “You say that it is not good to have the Bishop seeing how our army works, and I agree, _if_ he turns against us. He will only turn against us if we are the losing side. That man does not pick sides in this war, he picks his God, and his God’s will. He does not care who wins, so long as he is on the winning side, so he can continue his preaching, or whatever it is he does. Our Great Army does not lose, Ubbe. So, why not keep him as a great warrior? He does not just know how our army works – or what I have let him see – but he knows how Aethelwulf’s army works too. And so long as we are winning, he will help keep us winning. And once we have won? Once we have used him to destroy Aethelwulf and Aethelred? Then, we destroy the Bishop.”

“But he hates us, Ivar,” Ubbe said, his anger already softening, his gaze searching his brother’s face, “He thinks that we are demons. Heathens. I do not think that he or his God wants to make peace with us.”

“I have been working on that,” Ivar shrugged a shoulder, “Chess is more than just a game, you know. I have gotten to know him, and I know how he thinks. He is a strategy, Ubbe, nothing more to me. I do not want to fight against my brothers. Of course I do not want to fight you! I do not want Sigurd’s visions to come true. I don’t want Sigurd to die because of us! I won’t fight you, Ubbe. I can’t. We are all sons of Ragnar.”

“And I do not want to fight you, Ivar. You know that. I love you, little brother.” Ubbe was watching him closely. He took a breath. “If we can come to some sort of…” Ubbe glanced at Sigurd and Hvitserk, “…compromise? Can we all agree and work together again?”

Ivar cocked his head. “What are you suggesting, Ubbe?”

“We will leave Heahmund alive, to see if your plan works. We will let him fight for us in one battle, our next battle. If he is an asset, he can live longer, until your plan runs its course, and destroy him when you have had your use of him. But, in the next battle, if it even looks like he is about to betray us in any way, we destroy him right where he stands; one battle, to decide, and then take each battle as it comes, to test his loyalty to the ‘winning side’.” He waited, watching Ivar. “Yes?”

Ivar did not think over the offer for very long. He nodded. “Yes. That is a good compromise.”

Ubbe’s response was to pull Ivar into a hug. Ivar let out a choked breath of surprise at first, his eyes wide, but he quickly reached up to fist his hands in Ubbe’s shirt, hugging him tighter, nose pressed into Ubbe’s shoulder.

“Forgive me,” Ubbe murmured into Ivar’s hair, “That I doubted your vow. And if I made you doubt that I love you. Of course I do.”

“I love you too, brother,” Ivar whispered back, and it was honest. “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” Ubbe said, pulling back, but keeping his hand on Ivar’s shoulder. Ubbe smiled at him, a smile that reached his eyes, warm and fond. “Of course I do.”

“Thank the Gods for that,” Sigurd exclaimed across the room, leaping to his feet and going to fetch four goblets and a jug of wine.

“And you forgive me, brother?” Ivar looked to Hvitserk, “For some of the things I have said to you?”

Hvitserk was frowning, forehead creasing with it, and his arms crossed over his chest. But at Ivar’s words, he pushed off the table he was leaning back against, and walked to them. He reached out to clasp the back of Ivar’s head, and pressed their foreheads together.

“I did not like to hear them, but I knew you did not mean them as much as you tried hard to make me believe,” Hvitserk said, their head; their minds, close together. “You may have had the loudest mind when it was just the two of us, Ivar, but it meant I could hear much more of it.”

That, finally, helped make sense of why Hvitserk had still been adamantly on Ivar’s side, despite all the cruel things Ivar had said to him. He had known that his brother had not truly meant them, and had not sided with him for the sole purpose of spiting Ubbe and Sigurd.

“So you are not as stupid as I had feared, Hvitserk,” Ivar teased.

Hvitserk barked a laugh, and knocked their heads together before pulling back.

Sigurd returned, passing around goblets.

“Skol,” he said, holding up his own.

“Skol!” his brothers called back to him.

They drank deeply, thankful that their division was mended once more. And Ragnar, Ragnar was possibly most relieved of all.

“Now let’s make sure I don’t die, shall we?” Sigurd suggested, wiping the remnants of wine from his lips with the back of his hand.

“Yes,” Ivar promised, as Ubbe and Hvitserk slung their arms around Sigurd’s shoulders from either side. “Let us make sure that that does not happen.”

***

But what they had been trying to avoid did come to pass…the battle was fierce. It was on open field. Ragnar’s boys were almost immediately swept up and separated by the surge of the battle. It was one of the bloodiest that they had experienced so far.

And, with the horror of an observer, unable to do a single thing about it, or give those on the Earth a single warning about it, he began to realise that every single thing that Sigurd had seen in his vison-dream, bizarre as some of them had seemed, were coming to pass. And that did not bode well.

_He saw Heahmund’s eyes blazing._

Bishop Heahmund was keeping to his word and fighting for the Viking side, the fog of battle-craze having descended, he was racking up a brutal kill-count, his eyes wide and blazing. But, unlike Ragnar’s original concern on seeing the vision at first, Heahmund’s eyes were not blazing as he fought Ragnar’s sons; they were blazing as he killed the enemies of Ragnar’s sons.

Ivar and Ubbe briefly crossed paths. Ivar was tipped from his chariot, but, like he had been summoned, Ubbe was there, steadying the horse and stopping the chariot from tipping all the way. Viking warriors had surrounded them to keep the enemy soldiers at bay as Ubbe rounded the chariot to hold a hand out to Ivar to pull him up. Ivar took it, looking grateful, but once Ivar had used Ubbe’s shoulder to help steady himself on his leg braces, Ivar was ready to climb back on the chariot.

Ubbe offered to help, protective and concerned, but Ivar shook his head, adamant and determined.

“You were my legs once, but not anymore,” Ivar said. _I can do this_ , Ivar meant, _I have the means to do this by myself now._

After only a brief visual assessment from Ubbe, Ubbe nodded and stepped back, letting Ivar climb up onto his chariot again and return to the fight.

“I will see you at the end of this, little brother,” Ubbe promised.

Ivar had nodded, grinning fiercely, “I look forward to it.”

And with that, the brothers rejoined the battle as if nothing had ever happened, being drawn in separate directions once more.

Ragnar recongised this as another piece of Sigurd’s vision; _he heard Ivar say to Ubbe; “You were once my legs, but not anymore.”_ But instead of it being said antagonistically, dismissively, as Ragnar had feared, it had been said to let his brother know that Ivar could do this, that Ivar was more than capable of standing on his own two feet. And Ubbe knew, recognised and accepted that.

Ragnar was proud of them, but still concerned that Sigurd’s visions seemed to be coming to realisation, despite the brothers’ efforts to stop them from happening.

His concern greatened when, later into the fighting, he saw another part come true;

_He saw Hvitserk lying on a battlefield, one side of his face pressed to the dirt as he gasped for breath._

Hvitserk was in the midst of battling an enemy soldier. He swung his handaxe at the man’s head, but the man dodged and cracked his own axehilt around Hvitserk’s face, flooring him with one punch. Hvitserk landed hard, onto his shield and axe handle, winded. Luckily the soldier he had been fighting was quickly distracted by a new opponent, turning to fight somebody else, leaving Hvitserk lying on his front, face pressed to the grass and dirt as he gasped desperately for breath after such a heavy blow to his body. But it was the blow to his head that had Ragnar most worried, because Hvitserk was disorientated, eyes wide but unseeing. And, almost as Ragnar had viewed Sigurd’s visions, he confusedly found himself being dragged into another, but, bizarrely and very unusually, it was one of Hvitserk’s making;

_Hvitserk was standing on a grass back, watching boats leave on the river; Bjorn sailing away and back to the Mediterranean. Hvitserk could have been on that boat, and for a second both Hvitserk and Ragnar glimpsed another Hvitserk, the one that had chosen to leave, on that ship beside Bjorn. Across on the distant shore, they saw another Hvitserk, the one that had decided to stay, waving Bjorn goodbye alongside Ubbe, Sigurd and Ivar. There was a third Hvitserk, floundering in the water, unsure whether to swim after Bjorn’s ships, or swim back to shore and his full-blooded brothers._

_Hvitserk and Ragnar watched for a moment as one Hvitserk sailed away with Bjorn, the second waved them off, and the third struggled, conflicted, in the water._

_They were distracted when Hvitserk felt a presence beside him, and he glanced to find Ubbe standing at his side._

_“I would not want to meet you face-to-face in battle, little brother,” Ubbe said to Hvitserk. He looked sad and disappointed. “I would not want to have to kill you.”_

_The next moment, Ubbe was gone, and a knife was suddenly pressed against Hvitserk’s throat. Hvitserk turned sideways, the blade nicking his skin, to find Ivar holding the blade, his arm outstretched._

_“You don’t understand,” Ivar said to Hvitserk. “I am sorry you jumped ship. It was a mistake. I know you have regretted it ever since. Isn’t that true? Huh? Poor Hvitserk.”_

_“I do not envy you,” Hvitserk heard Sigurd shout to him from the opposite side of the river, where one of the other Hvitserks stood between Ubbe and Ivar, “Being stuck in the middle of Ubbe and Ivar. Being pulled this way and that like a favourite toy.” But Sigurd’s voice cut sharp, then, his face becoming determined and frantic. “But you are aware of it, now, Hvitserk! Be aware! BE AWAKE!”_

Ragnar returned to the present and the battle as Hvitserk did, gasping back to life and out of the vision.

So _that_ had been why Sigurd’s vision had included conversations so similar to ones that had been held previously; they were a part of Hvitserk’s vision, one built from memory and confliction. And then Sigurd had appeared in it, demanding Hvitserk awake; coincidental or intentional? Ragnar would find out.

But first he had ensure that Hvitserk staggered to his feet, dazed and disorientated from the hit to the head, the winding of breath, and the subsequent vision he had had. He only had a moment to hazily lock eyes onto two men fighting nearby and recognise one of them as Ubbe, before Ubbe turned blindly, also apparently confused and foggy from the effects of Hvitserk’s issues through the mental link. Ubbe had presumably felt Hvitserk’s pain and had desperately been hacking his way through the fight towards him, and so turned ready to fight whoever landed in front of him next, whoever next got between him and getting to his brother, but thanks to the pain clouding his mind, he did not notice that it was Hvitserk that was standing there before him.

As he turned, caught up in the fight and the fog, Ubbe swung his sword right at Hvitserk’s neck. Hvitserk only had a second to realise what was happening and screw his eyes shut and wait for the inevitable.

Ragnar choked.

_He saw Hvitserk standing on a battlefield as Ubbe swung his sword towards Hvitserk’s neck. Hvitserk’s eyes were screwed shut._

But the blow never landed. Hvitserk opened his eyes to find that Ubbe’s sword had halted at the very last second, and that his brother was staring at him, wide-eyed and horrified, finally seeing him properly.

Hvitserk stared back, panting, eyes wild.

“Hvitserk?” Ubbe asked, in shock and confusion at what he had almost done.

“Ubbe,” Hvitserk gasped.

Ubbe’s eyes flicked to something over Hvitserk’s shoulder, and instead of answering, he pulled Hvitserk aside to stab the soldier that had been about to attack Hvitserk from behind while he was distracted. Once the man had been slain and Ubbe had saved Hvitserk’s life, Ubbe’s hand landed flat against Hvitserk’s neck, where the sword would have cut it open.

“Hvitserk,” Ubbe said urgently, “I am sorry, I could not see straight, my head…” His hand trailed up to hold the side of Hvitserk’s head. “Are you alright?”

“I am just glad you stopped yourself, brother,” Hvitserk gave a small smile, still collecting himself and readying himself to rejoin the battle through the pain.

Ubbe pressed a fierce kiss to his temple. “I would never hurt you, brother,” Ubbe promised. “Not ever.” His eyes searched Hvitserk’s face again, frantic. “Are you alright?” he asked again.

Hvitserk gripped his axe and shield a little tighter again in his hands. He had always been stubborn and battle-hardy. “I am always alright enough to fight, Ubbe,” Hvitserk’s grin was wider this time, and Ubbe nodded with an answering grin, releasing him to turn and fight the latest onslaught of soldiers, Hvitserk fighting beside him.

They fought near each other for some time, Ubbe no doubt keeping an eye on Hvitserk just in case. But Ragnar feared that it was not Hvitserk that needed protection now. Not if Sigurd’s vision had been completely accurate; which it had turned out to be so far. Ragnar was dreading what was still to come, but powerless to stop it.

He looked for Sigurd.

He found him fighting, relentless and determined, in the thick of battle. But despite the battle frenzy shared by the four brothers, Sigurd was distracted too. The snake of his eye was darker and bigger than usual, Ragnar could see, and Ragnar guessed that Sigurd was seeing the pieces of his vision come together one by one throughout the battle as Ragnar has been. Sigurd would no doubt be as shocked as Ragnar that despite the brothers’ attempts to avert Sigurd’s vision from coming true, it seemed to be happening anyway, just in a different context. Sigurd would be in the same mind as Ragnar; that if everything else was coming true, then Sigurd’s forseen fate might be too.

But despite that, Sigurd still seemed to be keeping an eye – literally and mentally and visually – on his brothers as much as himself; he was keeping a literal eye on Ivar, who was on his chariot not far away from Sigurd and was hacking down opponents on all sides; he was keeping a mental check on Ubbe and Hvitserk, who he could not see; and, also, when the moments of vision came, he was being dragged into those too. Ragnar had no doubt that Sigurd had been connected to Hvitserk’s vision, and that it had been him and not just Hvitserk’s imagination that had ordered Hvitserk to wake up, and pull him out of his vision and back to the battle. Sigurd must have also been suffering from the shock of Hvitserk being knocked down, as his fighting style, though ceaseless, was decidedly more erratic than usual.

“You had best be keeping count, brother!” Ivar shouted to Sigurd gleefully and playfully over the chaos of the battle and the men that separated them. “We can make bets on kill counts later!”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, Ivar!” Sigurd shouted back, his voice fading by the time he said, “It is not over yet!”

“That is not the spirit, Sigurd!” Ivar called to him.

“Yes it is,” Sigurd murmured to himself. Only Ragnar could hear him. Ragnar was also the only one who saw Sigurd’s eyes widen, and a second later, a handaxe that had been picked up and thrown by an enemy soldier embedding itself in Sigurd’s shoulder.

Ragnar could only watch horrified, devastated, as his fifth child, his fourth son, his second youngest, still so young, stared down at the axe like he still could not believe that what he had forseen was truly happening.

_He saw the shocked look on Sigurd’s face as he looked down at an axe stuck in his chest._

_He saw Ivar gaping in shock, staring as Sigurd dropped to his knees._

Ivar was clearly stunned still from the sight of Sigurd getting injured, no doubt feeling it in his own shoulder, his own chest.

Ivar choked out a wordless sound, twisted and pained, at the same time that Ragnar did.

The moment that Sigurd dropped to his knees, Ivar was screaming, screaming a battle cry and with wild eyes, began slashing and gouging his chariot’s way through the men that stood between him and his brother.

Across the battlefield Ragnar had seen the moment that both Ubbe and Hvitserk had jerked with the impact of the axe. It had been such a force that Hvitserk had bitten straight through his lip and blood immediately began to well and spill from his mouth.

Ubbe turned towards Hvitserk, a terrified question in his eyes. Ubbe looked positively ill, and was holding his own shoulder like was afraid his arm might fall off. Ragnar saw the moment that Ubbe’s gaze landed on Hvitserk’s face, and the blood running down his chin; the brief moment that Ubbe thought that it was Hvitserk that had been injured.

“Hvitserk,” Ubbe moaned under his breath, devastated, stumbling towards his brother, “No, gods, no…”

“It’s not me,” Hvitserk said frantically, more blood pouring through his lips, as Ubbe reached him and grabbed at him like he might be Hvitserk’s only tether to staying on the earth. “It’s not me, Ubbe.”

Ubbe’s gaze searched Hvitserk, his eyes flitting over him, as both of them searched through the haze of the battle frenzy to their mental connection, and realised which of their brothers was in pain. And why Ivar’s mind was so utterly vengeful and distressed. 

“Sigurd,” Ubbe and Hvitserk said in unison, before they turned and flew together through the battle, cutting down anyone that got in their way, as they fought to get to Sigurd.

***

Ivar was on the ground beside Sigurd, cradling his head and chattering to him in an endless stream of words.

“Don’t you die, Sigurd,” Ivar warned, “Valhalla does not want you. Not yet. So you must stay here, yes? You must stay here with us so you have to get over this…” He waved a hand towards the axe embedded in Sigurd’s shoulder as though it offended him. “It is just a tiny little scratch. You must not be such a baby and just get over it. Valhalla does not want you yet, but we do. We do. I know I do not say that very often, so take it while you can. We need you here. So you have to get over this. This is just an axe. You are a master of axes, right, Sigurd? You make them. They do not make you. So you can defeat it…by the Gods, Sigurd,” he sounded angry now, "How did you not see this coming?”

“I did…” Sigurd groaned through gritted teeth.

“Well you could have said something,” Ivar hissed. Despite always complaining of them smothering him when Ivar was in pain, Ivar did not do well at all when any of his brothers were in pain instead. He did not know how to express himself whenever it happened, other than to blame them for being reckless and getting incredibly angry on their behalf. He became protective. Ivar the Boneless could be mean to his brothers, but he would kill for them too.

Sigurd’s reply did not come because Ubbe and Hvitserk suddenly broke through the ring of Viking warriors that had formed to protect them – as they had done when Ivar had briefly fallen from his chariot – and their brothers collapsed to their knees beside them.

“Sigurd,” Ubbe said, distressed, horrified, hands fluttering uselessly over the axe. As the eldest of the four of them, and the mother-hen, Ragnar knew that Ubbe would be feeling powerless and guilty, that he could not help his little brother so easily this time. “Gods, brother…”

Sigurd stared up at them all, his blue eyes impossibly bright against the specks of blood on his face and the pale skin beneath. The snake in his eye looked like it was writhing at the pain.

“I just need to…” Sigurd batted Ubbe’s hand away and reached for the handle, “Get it out…”

“No,” Ivar chided, catching Sigurd’s hand and pulling it away. “Taking it out will make it worse. We need to be in a place where we can fix the wound quickly once we do take it out. We cannot do that here.”

“Sigurd…” Hvitserk clasped Sigurd’s other hand. Hvitserk’s chin was covered in blood, but it was drying. “The vision…”

“It is all coming true anyway,” Sigurd confirmed. “Most of it has already happened.” His stomach was rising and dropping quickly with his shallow, pained breaths. “We could not have stopped this from happening.” Sigurd met Ubbe’s eyes as he said it, adamant, telling Ubbe that there was nothing their eldest brother could have done to prevent it and protect him.

“But at least we can see it through together,” Ubbe said fiercely. If it had not been for them attempting to revert the foreseen events of Sigurd’s vision, the brothers would have never have reconciliated with each other. They were always stronger when they worked together as a unit. “We will get through this together, brother.” Ubbe’s hand landed on top of Sigurd and Hvitserk’s clasped hands, as Ivar held Sigurd’s other hand.

Ragnar had seen them do this only a couple of times; once when Ivar was in exceptional pain, and the night following Ubbe and Hvitserk being attacked by Heahmund.

The brothers did not just feel each other’s pain through their mental link, but they should share it out too, but only when they were in physical contact with each other. And that was what they did, right there in the middle of the battlefield. The four brothers shared Sigurd’s pain between them, which eased Sigurd’s suffering

They did the same, later, when Sigurd was safely back at their encampment and their healer removed the axe from him.

The pain and the suffering – and the scream – was shared between the four of them.

_He saw all four brothers screaming with pain and agony and rage._

Sigurd passed out. The other three did not.

Still furious, Ivar and Ubbe returned to whatever remains lay on the battlefield. The Vikings had been forced to retreat over the injuries sustained - not just Sigurd’s, but significantly Sigurd’s - because the four leaders of the Great Heathen Army had been compromised.

_He saw blood. So much blood._

There was so much blood. The battlefield was stained a stark red. Bodies lay everywhere, even piled up in places. The Heathen Army and Aethelwulf’s army had suffered equal losses, but if the sons of Ragnar were being honest with themselves, this had been the first loss of the Great Heathen Army.

“It will take time for both sides to recuperate from this,” Ivar commented to Ubbe. He was in his leg braces, using his crutches to keep up a faster pace, but Ubbe was well accustomed to walking at his youngest brother’s pace. “We have time to plan a counterattack. And win this. Once and for all.”

Ubbe nodded and hummed in agreement.

They did not agree, however, when they came across Bishop Heahmund lying on the ground, gravely wounded, amongst countless dead bodies. The man looked on the verge of death, his breathing unstable and his wounds severe as he stared up sightlessly at the sky, his eyes bright and wide.

Ubbe raised his sword without a word.

“No,” Ivar demanded, meeting Ubbe’s sword with his own to knock it aside before it could move to strike a killing blow to Heahmund.

_He saw Ubbe about to kill an injured Heahmund, and Ivar stopping him._

“It is kinder to put him out of his misery,” Ubbe said.

“It is kinder. But we wanted him to suffer, yes? So let him. Let’s take him back to camp.”

Ubbe’s eyes narrowed. “And this is not because you actually have grown an attachment to him? We were the losing side, in this battle, brother. If we let him live now and he actually manages to heal, then he will not fight for us anymore.”

Ivar’s lips pressed together. He watched Ubbe, still not moving his sword away from Ubbe’s, in case Ubbe went ahead and killed the Bishop.

“We are on the same side, brother,” Ivar insisted. “I am on your side, our brothers’ side. You know that. I have proved it to you. So trust me.” Ivar said.

_He saw Ivar and Ubbe watching each other, blue eyes fierce._

Ubbe and Ivar stared each other down.

“Please,” Ivar added, causing Ubbe to break their stare as he blinked in surprise at Ivar’s rare use of the word. 

Across the battlefield, at the Viking camp, as the last piece of the vision occurred, Sigurd regained consciousness for just a second, his snake-eye finding Hvitserk, who was sitting slouched next to Sigurd’s bedside.

“Sigurd?” Hvitserk asked on realising that his golden-haired brother was awake, sounding cautious but hopeful.

“It all has come true, now,” Sigurd told him, on a disorientated whisper, “I foresaw it all.”

“But you never saw for certain that this was going to be the death of you,” Hvitserk insisted anxiously, “You said you saw yourself get wounded, but you didn’t see yourself die, did you Sigurd?” And when Sigurd did not reply, Hvitserk demanded again, “Sigurd?”

“I did not. But it could still happen,” Sigurd mumbled, before slipping back into unconsciousness again.

“It won’t,” Hvitserk promised him fiercely, even though Sigurd was no longer listening to him. “Not while we three are alive to help you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has gotten way longer than intended so I have extended from three chapters to five. 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Thanks for reading! Thoughts, comments, kudos and bookmarks are all greatly loved and appreciated.


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